Lord and Lady Spy (26 page)

“Twombley went to the front of the house,” she said, keeping her voice low. “This is the garden wall I told you about.”

“We scale it and enter through the back of the house.”

“We could, but it’s not my first choice.”

“What’s your first choice?”

“We knock on the front door.”

Adrian blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“We could scale this wall, creep through the garden, dispatch the guards, and end up tired and bloody before we ever find Foncé.”

“And?” What else did she expect? That was the job.

She sighed. “Or we knock on the front door and avoid all of that.”

“Why do you think Foncé will agree to see us? This is late for a social call.”

“Because he’s expecting us. Twombley will have told him everything by now. If not, he wouldn’t have started preparations to leave.”

She had a point. But as they’d seen no movement in the house after watching a quarter hour, Adrian surmised that the final departure had either already taken place or been postponed. The question was until when? If morning, they had time to go back and get another operative or two to assist. If the plan was to leave later tonight, they had to move now.

He looked at the wall before them. “We still have to scale it. I need to get an image of the back in case we need to escape that way.”

“Of course. Watch out for the guards.”

Adrian pulled a pistol from each pocket and readied them. “I’m prepared.”

“So am I.”

He watched as she withdrew a long, sharp knife from her boot and tucked it up her sleeve. He could only send prayers of thanks she’d elected to forgo her pistol tonight. Otherwise, he’d have had to look out for more than the guards.

He was about to tell her he’d scale the wall first and cover her descent, but she already had a handhold and was climbing nimbly up the stone. She was quick and fast like a monkey, and Adrian was almost glad she had gone first. He doubted he would be as graceful.

When she reached the top of the wall, she peered over cautiously, then gave him a nod and jumped over. He heard the soft thud of her landing before he scrambled over.

He landed beside her and ducked under the shadow of a hedge.

“There.” She pointed toward the main house, some distance away, and he watched as a dark shape moved across a lighted door. “And there.” She pointed to another guard.

“Well, they haven’t evacuated yet.” But he noted two of the guards were busy moving several crates from a storage building to the main house. The departure preparations were still under way.

They couldn’t afford to delay.

Adrian turned calculating eyes on the structures. The house was large but not overly so. It boasted several smaller buildings—what looked to be a greenhouse, a kitchen, and some sort of storage building. Adrian doubted any were what they seemed, but from the outside all looked innocuous enough. The house itself was brick and stone, nothing special. The gardens were large, but no gardener lived here. They were filled with shrubs and trees—no flowers or any of the other plants those interested in botany always seemed to be discussing. But the gardens were well kept. No overgrowth to hide his approach.

Sophia and Adrian sat and watched for a quarter of an hour, not speaking, and in that time, Adrian counted six guards. All but the two moving items—guns? money?—were on patrol, and all looked alert and aware. Adrian assumed all were armed as well. They’d probably been told to shoot first and ask questions later.

“Have you changed your mind?” Sophia whispered. “Do you want to go in this way?”

It was what he knew, what he was used to. He’d fought his way into places more heavily guarded than this. But if an operative couldn’t be flexible, then it was time he found a new line of work. He took her hand. “Let’s go.”

She raised her brows. “In through the front door?”

“Why not? I like to live dangerously.”

***

Adrian gave her a last dark look before he rapped on the plain gold knocker. Sophia noted much had changed since the afternoon. No guards stood at the front of the house now, and it was no longer a hive of activity. The house was quiet and appeared at rest. Foncé had better be inside. If they had missed him…

Sophia bit her lip and tried to stop fidgeting. She stood behind Adrian, her long hair falling over her shoulders. She’d lost her cap on the way back over the wall and hadn’t bothered to retrieve it. No need anyway—they weren’t pretending to be anything other than who they were now.

She bounced on the balls of her feet, feeling the weight of her knife tucked in her sleeve, ready to slip into her hand. She didn’t know who would open the door—or even if it would open.

They stood there, her heart pounding ten, eleven, twelve times, and no sound came from the house. Adrian scowled at her. “Try again,” she said.

He knocked louder, the sound seeming to echo down the quiet street. Finally, she heard the clicking of shoes on a hard surface. The door opened, and a quiet, unassuming little man stood before them. “May I help you?” he asked pleasantly.

Sophia almost apologized for the interruption before she realized this was all part of the ruse. Adrian never even hesitated. He handed the man a card. “Lord and Lady Smythe to see Monsieur Foncé.”

The butler took the card, his brow furrowing delicately and his mustache twitching. “Who? There’s no Monsieur Foncé at this address.”

“Then we’d like to speak with Mr. Twombley,” Sophia said, “or any representative of the Maîtriser group on the premises.”

“The what group?”

But she’d seen the flicker of fear in his face, and before he could back up and slam the door, Adrian moved to wedge his foot in the opening. “Do you mind if we take a look around?”

“Why, yes! Please remove your foot at once!”

But Adrian wedged his shoulder against the door and shoved it open. Once again, Sophia appreciated the benefits of having Adrian with her. He went in first, and she followed, sliding her knife in her hand as she did so. Immediately, a large man with a jagged scar on his cheek stepped into the vestibule. He went for Adrian, who pulled one of his pistols. The guard stopped and grunted.

“Go get Foncé.”

“No need, monsieur. I’m right here.”

Sophia whirled at the sound of the cultured voice with the heavy French accent. Standing behind them, in the doorway of what appeared to be a small parlor, was a tall, broad-shouldered man with long black hair, a generous mouth, and piercing blue eyes. She didn’t think she’d ever seen eyes that blue before. She felt his gaze on her, and when he curved those lips into a seductive smile, she warmed unwillingly.

“I see we have guests. From the Barbican group, I presume?”

The butler handed Foncé their card as the handsome man stepped into the vestibule. “Lord and Lady Smythe, sir.”

“Ah.” Foncé made a show of looking at their card, while another guard sidled into the vestibule. Sophia gave Adrian a look.

“It’s becoming a little crowded for my liking,” Adrian said. “I’d like to chat in private.”

Foncé raised his brows. “What makes you think I have anything to chat with you about, monsieur? Madame?”

“The least you could do is offer us some refreshment.” Sophia smiled and extended her hand. She counted on Foncé reaching for it. Foncé knew she was an operative, but it was instinct to take a lady’s hand. Even as he realized his mistake, Sophia had his arm behind his back and her knife pressed to his throat.

The butler let out a small screech, the two—no, now three—guards moved forward, and Adrian stepped so his back was to the wall, his pistol aimed at the guard nearest Sophia.

Foncé was tall, and Sophia was on tiptoes to hold her knife in place. It meant the point dug into his neck and kept him very still. “Monsieur Foncé,” she murmured in his ear. He smelled clean and woodsy, like evergreen or pine. “I think you know I won’t hesitate to use this knife.”

“Yes, but where will that get you?”

“It would rid the world of a bastard like you. However, if you would be amenable to a brief conversation—a private conversation—I might be persuaded to allow you to remain in this worldly realm a little longer.”

Foncé didn’t move. She couldn’t feel his pulse pounding, which meant he wasn’t terrified. He was considering. She had no idea what his answer would be, and she sent Adrian a warning look.
Be
ready.
They might yet need to fight their way out of this.

“Vincent,” Foncé said, voice level and with a touch of ennui, “step outside with your men. I’ll call for you if I need you.”

The guard with the jagged scar frowned but signaled the other guards without argument. “
Oui, monsieur
.”

The guards and the small butler withdrew, leaving Adrian and Sophia alone with Foncé. Not that Sophia was relieved. The guards would return, and neither she nor Adrian would know when to expect the attack. Adrian kept his pistol trained on Foncé, but Sophia withdrew the knife from his throat. He adjusted his cravat then gestured to the parlor behind him. “Why don’t we speak in here?” His voice was pleasant, and his smile appeared genuine, but Sophia knew not all snakes gave a warning before striking.

Sophia entered the small parlor and quickly scanned the room—small sofa, two chairs, a fireplace with fire, and a lady’s antique escritoire. One of the chairs had a book laid over the arm. Apparently, Foncé had been reading. The room was papered with a pattern resembling green ivy, and the rug on the floor matched. Sophia could only assume the house had come furnished, as she did not imagine this was Foncé’s taste. No, he would favor heavy furnishings and dark, masculine colors.

“Where is Twombley?” Adrian asked.

Foncé walked to the chair with the book and sat gracefully, crossing his legs. “Monsieur Twombley is in the cellar.”

Adrian scowled. He’d moved to Foncé’s right, and she was on his left. “Send for him. I’d like to speak with him.”

Foncé gave him a patient smile. “Oh, he is in no condition to speak with you, monsieur.”

Sophia swallowed. She had no doubt, were they to visit the cellar, they’d find Twombley dead. She could only hope Foncé hadn’t hacked into the poor man.

“We’re investigating the murder of George Jenkinson,” Sophia said. “We have reason to believe the Maîtriser group killed him.”

Foncé lifted his book, thumbed through it idly. “Investigating a murder. I didn’t realize the Barbican group concerned itself with such matters.”

“We’re not with the Barbican group.” Adrian sounded pained to say it.

“Oh?” Foncé’s brows shot up. “That lessens your prestige considerably.”

“Even so,” Sophia said, “we’re taking you into custody for the murder of George Jenkinson.”

“Go ahead.” Foncé set his book on the arm of his chair. “You’ll never prove it, of course.” He reached into his coat. “Unless you have copies of these.”

Adrian’s eyes narrowed, and Sophia could see his fingers twitch. He wanted those documents. “What are those?”

“Records of payments made to George Jenkinson.” He turned the papers in his hand as though seeing them for the first time. “With the information obtained for each payment.”

“He was selling confidential information about England’s war efforts,” Sophia said.

Foncé shrugged. “
Naturellement
. But here is the problem.” He wagged the documents. “It’s such a scandal. The brother of the prime minister selling England’s secrets?
Oh
là là!
Your Liverpool will allow me to go rather than involve himself in such a scandal.”

Unfortunately, he was correct, Sophia thought. Liverpool would not want to sully his name. But Melbourne could see Foncé was dealt with, if not for Jenkinson’s murder, then for his other crimes. But she needed those documents. They needed to know how many of England’s secrets had been compromised by Jenkinson.

“Give me the documents.” Adrian cocked the pistol and pointed it at Foncé.

“Let me go,” Foncé said.

“We can’t do that.” Sophia held out her hand. “Give them to me.”

Foncé held the documents toward her then jerked his hand and tossed them in the fire. Sophia inhaled quickly, and too late saw Foncé reach into his coat. “Down!” she ordered, but the pistol shot screamed through the air even as Adrian dove for the fire.

“Bloody hell!” White-hot pain shot through Adrian’s leg. He’d made a leap for the fire and the documents, and his leg had obviously collided with some furnishing.

Except this hurt more than a simple bump. This felt like…

He tried to get his bearings, lifted his head, and looked into the fire. The documents had landed on the edge of the hearth. They were still intact, but the fire licked at them, clawing closer.

“Adrian!” Sophia was across the room, looking down at him. Was he on the floor? How the bloody hell had he ended up on the floor. “Adrian!”

And then Foncé was behind her. Before Adrian could warn her, the man had his arm about her waist. She immediately jabbed her elbow into his abdomen, but the man gripped her hair, yanked her head back, and put a knife to her throat.

Sophia’s knife.

She stilled, her gaze meeting Adrian’s. He could see the plea for him to stay put, not to intervene. She wasn’t afraid, not for herself. She was afraid for him.

Foncé dragged her across the parlor, through the door, and out of sight.

The hell he was going to stay put. He would… But when he tried to rise, his leg buckled. He tried again. And failed. Levering himself to a sitting position, he glimpsed his leg. “Bloody hell.”

No wonder his thigh was throbbing. He had a gaping hole in it, blood pouring from his leg and onto the ugly green-and-white carpet.

He stared at the door Sophia had disappeared through, then looked at the fireplace. The flames had singed one corner of the documents, and the parchment was smoking now.

And he was lying on the floor like a bloody invalid.

He heard the sound of something shatter, and grinding his teeth, reached for the chair leg nearest him. Black spots danced before his eyes as he struggled to hold on.

***

Sophia stumbled into the vestibule, feeling the cold metal of her knife—
her
own
knife!
—at her throat. Foncé’s arm was warm and solid about her waist, and it hadn’t escaped her notice that he held her closer than was necessary.

“Unhand me,” she demanded.

“Tired of my embraces already, Lady Smythe? Or should I call you Agent Saint?”

She stiffened involuntarily, and he laughed, low and husky, near her ear. She was able to control the shiver.

“That’s right,” he whispered, his lips grazing her ear. She closed her eyes, trying to block the sensation. “I know exactly who you are, and I must say, you are far more beautiful than I was led to believe.”

“I’m far more dangerous as well. Unhand me.”

“I don’t doubt you have a nasty bite, and that is precisely why I will not unhand you.” The knife he held dug into her neck, and she felt the prick of the sharp blade. A blade she’d sharpened herself. “Unlike your esteemed colleague, I’m going to give you a chance to live. One chance, madame.”

She swallowed, knowing the best strategy here was to play along. “What chance is that?”

“Join me.”

She almost laughed. She couldn’t believe he was serious, and then he whirled her to face him, and she saw how deadly serious he was. She tipped a table, causing a vase to shatter, but the knife was still in his hand. She hadn’t thrown him off balance. He gripped her neck and bent it back, but he was tall enough to lock his gaze with hers. “I think we could make a good team. We already have the most important component—passion.”

She shook her head. “I don’t—”

“Try and deny it, but I can see you want me.”

She couldn’t deny he was attractive, but then she imagined the devil himself could appear handsome when he so chose. Obviously, Foncé found her appealing, and that she could use to her advantage.

“Want you?” Sophia gave him a sultry smile. “I know I shouldn’t, but…”

Foncé’s lips descended on hers, and she dug her nails into the palm of her hand to keep from retching.

***

Adrian dragged himself to his knees and rested his forehead on the chair. The fire poker was at arm’s length, but it required him to put pressure on his bad leg. If he could grasp it, he could use it to fish the documents from the flames, and as a crutch, to make it across the room. With an oath, he reached for it. His leg screeched in agony, and his forehead poured with sweat, but he closed his slick fingers around the poker. His leg buckled, and as he fell, he made a desperate swipe at the fire.

***

Sophia kissed Foncé back. It was her only chance. This wasn’t the first time she had had to feign passion to survive, and she knew how to make a man lower his guard. She kissed him hard and with fervor, and when he lowered the knife and pressed her to his arousal, she struck out. She bit his roving tongue, and drove her knee into that arousal. Then, when he attempted to slash her with the knife, she sidestepped, causing him to lose his balance. She kneed him in the face, and he went down, the knife clattering into a far corner.

Sophia left it and raced for the parlor, Foncé’s shouts of “Guards!” echoing in her ears.

***

Adrian groaned, but something was pulling him out of the darkness. Sophia’s face swam before his, and he shook his head, tried to close his eyes again. She clasped his face in her hands.

“Foncé,” Adrian croaked. “The documents.”

“You have the documents right here.” She lifted them and tucked them into her shirt. “Foncé is still a concern. We need to move.”

He nodded. “Let’s go.” But he couldn’t find the strength to rise.

Sophia’s face disappeared for a moment, and he felt something probe at his leg. Then she was looking down at him again. “You’ve been shot,” she said unnecessarily.

“That’s four for me,” he groaned and tried again to stand, eliciting a string of curses he probably shouldn’t utter in front of his wife. “We’re even.”

“You’re competing with me? At a time like this?”

His head felt fuzzy, but there was no mistaking the worry in her voice. Foncé was probably collecting his troops even as they spoke. In a moment, the guards would burst through the door, and then Foncé would be carving letters on Sophia’s perfect porcelain skin in the cellar. “Get out of here.”

“I’m not leaving without you.” She looked over her shoulder at the door. “Can you walk?”

He scowled at her. “Madam, have you seen my leg?”

She scowled right back. “I’m
not
leaving you.” She bent beside him, and he thought she would help him to his feet, but she reached in his pocket and withdrew his pistol. Tucking it in her coat pocket, she lifted the other from where it had fallen on the floor and put it in his pocket.

“God help us now. You’re armed.”

“Stubble it.” She bent, got her arms hooked around him, and said, “Stand.”

He knew enough to do it quickly, so putting all his weight on his good leg, he levered himself up. “Give me the poker.”

She did, and he leaned some of his weight on it.

“Lean the rest on me.” She adjusted position so she was beside him, supporting him. “Let’s go.”

“We’ll never make it out. Go without me.”

“You’re wasting time.”

She began to move toward the door, and he tried to follow. The first shuffling step went well, and then he put the smallest hint of pressure on his injured leg, and black dots swam before his eyes. He prided himself on not whimpering when his leg screamed in protest, but he thought he might have screamed a bit in sympathy. “Have mercy,” he panted. “Leave me.”

“No.” She pulled him forward, and he found the next step as excruciating as the last, but this time he was prepared. She opened the parlor door, leaned him against the doorjamb, and peered out.

Foncé’s butler was standing in the vestibule, wringing his hands. He squealed when he saw them. Sophia pointed the pistol at him, and since the man didn’t know she couldn’t have hit him had he been standing at the barrel’s end, he lifted his arms. “I surrender!”

“Go call for your master’s coach.”

“B-but, my lady, it’s already out front. Monsieur Foncé called for it just now.”

“And where is he?” Adrian asked.

The butler shook his head, and Adrian thought he would not answer. “He went to fetch his
tools
,” the man whispered, fear in his voice.

Sophia glanced at Adrian. “That doesn’t sound promising. Let’s go.”

“And if we go, Foncé won’t be here when we return.”

“And if we don’t go, you and I will end up in the cellar beside Twombley. I know when to cut my losses, Wolf. We’ve got the documents. We’ll get Foncé later.”

She pulled him into the vestibule, and he clenched his jaw and followed. Behind them, he heard the rumble of men running and the sound of voices.

“Open the door!” Sophia screamed at the butler. He flapped his hands then ran to do her bidding. The butler moved away from the door, and the man with the jagged scar stood in the opening, grinning.

***

Sophia raised her pistol and fired. She was aware of Adrian’s weight on her side and tried to compensate with her aim, but really, she couldn’t fail to miss at such close range.

And she didn’t. The man fell backward, clutching his abdomen.

“You hit him.”

She scowled at Adrian. “Don’t sound so surprised.” She handed him the pistol so he could prime it, and yanked him out the door, wincing when he made a sound of pain as they descended the steps. Behind them, she saw Foncé’s men swarming into the vestibule. “Shoot!” she ordered.

“Shoot what?” he asked.

“Anything!”

He turned and fired, forcing the men converging on them to duck and take cover. She dragged Adrian toward the carriage. The coachman was running away—not that she blamed him—so she would have to secure Adrian inside and drive the vehicle herself. The distance to the coach seemed interminable. Her instinct was to run, but she tamped it down and supported Adrian. She hadn’t underestimated his strength. He must have been in enormous pain, but he was moving quickly.

She leaned him against the door of the coach, and he prepared his pistol to fire again. Just as she swung the coach door open, shots rang out from the house. “Damn it!” she yelled, ducking.

Adrian returned fire before she pushed him inside the carriage then ran around the far side to avoid being hit. Lights came on in the house across the street, and she could only imagine what the neighbors must think. Sophia wasn’t frightened now. She wasn’t even thinking. At this point, she simply acted.

Shots rang out again as she reached for the footboard. The horses were spooked and jostled the carriage, causing her to lose her grip. But finally she was in the box and reaching for the reins. The horses needed no urging; they danced into motion. One of the faster guards reached the carriage and grabbed the lead horse. Sophia grabbed for her knife, realized she’d lost it in the struggle with Foncé, and grasped a horseshoe on the floor of the box instead. She hefted it at the guard, hitting him in the forehead.

With an oath, he fell back. Another approached, but Adrian, somehow he was still conscious and fighting, shot at him from the carriage window.

And then she had the animals under control, and they were speeding away. She gave one look back, saw the guards streaming into the street, saw Foncé standing on his front stoop, holding a dark valise.

“This isn’t over,” she called.

He gave her a salute and stepped back inside.

***

“These aren’t completely useless,” Melbourne said, smoothing Foncé’s charred documents on his desk deep in the Barbican’s headquarters. “The little information I can still read is fairly damning.” He glanced at Liverpool, who was pacing behind the chair where Sophia was seated.

It was two weeks after The Fiasco—as Adrian liked to think of it—and Adrian’s leg still hurt like hell, though Farrar, the Barbican surgeon Sophia had insisted he see, told him he was lucky the bullet had missed the major blood vessels.

He didn’t feel lucky, but he wasn’t going to take any more of the mind-numbing medicine Farrar had offered him, so he propped his stitched and bandaged leg on the couch and clenched his jaw whenever he accidentally moved it. Sophia cast him another of her worried looks. She didn’t think he should be out of bed, and she was probably right. But he wouldn’t have missed this meeting for anything.

Liverpool stopped pacing and clasped his hands behind his back. “We can’t allow word of this… this treachery”—he swallowed—“to become public.”

“Of course not,” Sophia agreed. She was seated near Adrian in an old leather chair. “But at least now we know what information the French were given. We’re lucky we know what codes were compromised, and have the names of several English traitors working with the French.”

“They’ll be arrested,” Liverpool said. “I can’t abide a traitor.” He began pacing again, and Adrian thought he heard him mutter, “My own brother.”

Adrian could understand the prime minister’s feelings. Once he had struggled with his own father’s duplicity. Now, given the chance, he would have told Liverpool that the sins of the father did not reflect upon the son. Liverpool wasn’t responsible for his brother’s betrayal any more than Adrian needed to atone for his father’s.

“It’s a shame Foncé was allowed to get away,” Melbourne said with a glance at Adrian. Sophia had gone back to the house with other members of the Barbican group, but there was no sign of the Maîtriser group. No sign they had ever been in residence.

Melbourne was still angry Adrian hadn’t sent for assistance, even though Adrian had explained there had not been time. But after a failed mission, it was natural to ask what if and to wonder what could have been.

Adrian had been over everything so often he dreamed about it. “We’ll find him. It’s personal now.”

Liverpool ceased pacing. “I suppose I owe the two of you thanks for discovering this treachery, and I did make you a promise—a position in the Barbican group. And that position goes to—”

“Lord Liverpool,” Adrian said. “Wait.”

From her chair nearby, Sophia glanced at him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m telling Lord Liverpool I think you should be given the position.”

Liverpool raised his brows and gave Sophia a sidelong glance. “I see.”