Lord and Lady Spy (8 page)

“And you think I don’t? You think I didn’t want those children with every fiber of my being? You think I didn’t take every conceivable precaution when I suspected there was even the slightest possibility I could be with child?” Her voice rose, and tears sparkled on her lashes, but she shook her head, swiped at her eyes, and swallowed. “Perhaps we’re not meant to be parents. Lord knows we’re no good at being husband and wife. How much worse would we be at raising children?”

He sighed. Should he agree? Argue? Remain silent?

He wanted to say he thought she’d be a wonderful mother. She was so patient. She could sit through an entire opera and appear interested. And she was thoughtful. Somehow she knew all the servants’ birthdays and remembered when he’d be home for dinner and had Cook prepare his favorite meals. She took care of everything and everyone. She’d dote on a child. But would she want to hear such words? Thankfully, she spoke again.

“In any case, we’re both tired. This isn’t a discussion we need have tonight.”

“I’ll leave you, then.” Or should he offer to stay? What if she didn’t want to be alone? But if he offered, would she assume he was trying to bed her again? He was a capable, intelligent man. Give him a spy to track or a missive to decode, and he went to work without hesitation. But right now, right here, he felt flustered and useless.

She nodded. “Good night.”

“Good night.” She opened the door for him, and he walked through it. But when he turned to say something—he knew not what—
something
, God help him—she’d closed the door. He stood and stared at the dark wood paneling and wondered where he’d gone wrong.

Again.

Sophia stood across from the Honorable, now the deceased, George Jenkinson’s town house and watched the flurry of activity. Apparently, a mere three weeks after her husband’s murder, Mrs. Jenkinson was at home to callers. A steady stream of ladies went in and out of the modest dwelling. Mr. Jenkinson had been half brother to the prime minister and the second son of an earl, which meant the Jenkinsons had a large social circle. They were not members of the
ton
’s upper echelons, but Sophia recognized many of the ladies who called as wives of the wealthy and titled.

She was not acquainted with the Jenkinsons, but she’d come to call, nonetheless. And she’d come alone. Adrian might prefer plans and strategies, but she was one for action. As the closest person to the victim, Mrs. Jenkinson was the logical place to begin. So when Sophia’s butler, Wallace, had come to inform her Lord Smythe awaited her in the dining room, she’d merely nodded, gone downstairs, and slipped out the kitchen door. Cook didn’t even blink.

She didn’t sneak away—and wasn’t
sneak
too strong a word?—because she was afraid to face Adrian. It wasn’t because she was embarrassed at the way she’d behaved the night before. She’d revealed far too much, let him see a part of her she didn’t allow anyone to see. No, that wasn’t it. She’d avoided him because she wanted reinstatement into the Barbican group. Sitting around, planning, making maps and charts wouldn’t get her position back. Let Adrian waste his time strategizing. In the meantime, she would solve the murder.

She started across the street then gaped at the man approaching the door at the same time as she. He was dressed in a beaver hat, tailcoat, simply tied cravat, waistcoat, trousers, and polished black boots ending at the knee. He made quite the handsome picture—a picture she didn’t want to see. Sophia hurried and intercepted him before he could start up the steps. “What are
you
doing here?”

Adrian looked down at the hand on the sleeve of his gray morning coat, and she quickly removed it.

“I might ask you the same question, madam. We had an appointment this morning.”

Sophia pursed her lips. “I thought I would be of more use to the investigation if I called on Mrs. Jenkinson. That would leave you free to plan our next move.”

He cocked a brow. “Or you thought you’d solve the murder before me and take my place in the Barbican group.”

It was
her
place, but she didn’t want to begin that argument again. “Whatever my motivations and whatever your plans, we have both come to the same conclusion. Mrs. Jenkinson needs to be interrogated—er, questioned. You can’t be the one to do so.”

“Why not? I
questioned
Lucien Ducos.”

Sophia resisted the urge to smack him with her reticule and, instead, smiled sweetly. “Yes, but Mrs. Jenkinson is not a criminal, and, as far as I know, you have never been introduced to Mrs. Jenkinson.”

He seemed undeterred. “I’ll tell her Lord Liverpool sent me.”

She blinked. “You can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Do you want her to know we’re investigating this murder? What if she killed him? We’ll get more out of her if she isn’t on guard.”

Adrian frowned at her. She was used to that frown. “You think Mrs. Jenkinson killed—?”

“Stop.” Sophia held up a hand. “Women are just as capable as men of murder. You can’t dismiss her simply because of her gender.”

“Very well, point taken. But I don’t see why it matters if she knows I’m looking into the case. This isn’t a mission for the Foreign Office. I’m not acting as Agent Wolf.”

“Agent Wolf?” Sophia felt her jaw drop. “
You’re
Agent Wolf?”

“You’ve heard of me?”

Oh, yes, she’d heard of him. And she’d been so impressed with what she’d heard, she’d actually wanted to meet him. Once, perhaps twice—but only when she was very bored, sitting in a carriage, waiting hours for an informant or some other monotonous task—she’d even fantasized about what would happen when she did meet him. She’d tell him she was Agent Saint, and he’d take her hand, kiss it, look into her eyes, and say, “I know all about you. You’re the best agent we have.”

And she’d argue he was the best. And he’d say she was undeniably the most beautiful. And oh, her cheeks flamed in embarrassment at how ridiculous it all seemed now she was standing in front of Agent Wolf, and it had been Adrian all the time!

Adrian, who did not tell her she was the best agent the Barbican group had to offer. Adrian, who told her to stay home so she wouldn’t stub her toe.

“I heard something about you,” she muttered.

“Who were you?” he asked.

Oh, no. She wasn’t about to tell him. What if he’d never heard of Saint? What if all he’d heard was how she muddled that affair in Paris? One mistake. She’d made just one in her entire career, and she never forgot it. No matter that her record since then was flawless. No matter Paris had been one of her first missions for the Barbican group. She still remembered Paris. She wasn’t about to take the chance Adrian—Agent
Wolf
—knew about Paris.

She shook her head. “Let’s focus on the task at hand. One of us needs to question Mrs. Jenkinson. I think it should be me. She and I are both members of the Benevolent Society for the Aid and Prosperity of Orphans.”

“The what?”

“We have a common interest.”

Adrian raised a brow. “Have you ever attended a meeting of the Benevolent… Orphan Aid…?” He waved a hand. “Have you ever even been to a meeting?”

“Of course I’ve been to meetings.” She looked away.

“Of the Benevolent Orphans?”

“It’s the Benevolent Society for the Aid and Prosperity of Orphans, and no.” She scowled at him. “I haven’t attended one of their meetings. I was too busy saving England from certain French domination. But I do care about orphans. I do want them to prosper.”

“I see.”

She closed her eyes briefly. “We’re wasting time.”

“Agreed.”

“Fine.” She would show him how questioning a suspect was really done. “Let’s both question Mrs. Jenkinson.”

“Agreed.” He took her arm. “Your dress.”

Sophia blinked. “My dress?” She looked down at the pale blue-and-white-striped day dress. It was simple with an edge of white lace along the round neck and knotted tabs attached to the puff sleeves. Underneath the short sleeves, a gauzy white material extended to her wrists, where it flared. The pleated bodice had decorative buttons, giving the dress an exquisitely feminine look. She felt rather pretty and somewhat silly in such a dainty dress, but she was making calls this morning, not hiding in bushes or scaling gates.

She’d thought about wearing one of her ill-fitting ugly dresses, but what was the point? She was no longer part of the Barbican group. Adrian knew she was a spy. Who was she disguising herself for? Her days of anonymity and domestic surveillance ended when she married Adrian and joined the Barbican group. She’d maintained her mousy persona only for Adrian’s benefit.

She’d pulled out a hideous brown frock this morning then stashed it away in favor of this one. She might look about seventeen, but better young than dowdy. Today she wanted to look like a woman. She wanted to look like Sophia Galloway, Viscountess Smythe. Maybe if she dressed like her, she’d know who she was.

“What of the dress?” she asked cautiously. Did she look like she was trying too hard?

“It fits, and it’s fashionable,” Adrian drawled.

She glanced at him, raised a brow as they started up the Jenkinson’s walk. “What do you know of women’s fashion?”

“Very little, thank God.” His bicep tensed under her fingers. “I know what I like.”

Sophia blinked, all but speechless. Adrian was not a man who gave many compliments. “Thank you,” she said simply.

Adrian knocked on the town house door, and the butler answered promptly. He took both their cards and promised to return momentarily.

Sophia studied the vestibule. It was small and dark, not entirely welcoming. Did the killer enter through the vestibule that night? The stairs were just ahead. He or she could have stolen through the door, passed through the dark vestibule, and gone up the stairs without much risk of detection.

That’s how she would have acted.

But how would he or she know which room was Jenkinson’s? He couldn’t very well go about trying them all. Not without arousing suspicion, and Liverpool had made it clear no one had any idea who the killer might be.

If the killer had managed to enter the house and find Jenkinson without alerting Jenkinson’s wife or any of the servants, that meant either the killer had been in the house before or knew the layout. Or perhaps the killer lived in the house.

The wife? The valet? Another servant? “What about the valet?” Sophia said aloud.

“The valet?” Adrian said, appearing to study the vestibule as well. She wondered what Agent Wolf saw in the cramped, gloomy room. Something she didn’t? “I’ll question him.”

She sighed. Would everything be a struggle with him? “If you think I’m going to sit back and allow you to wrest control of this investigation from me, then—” She closed her mouth when she heard the butler’s step.

“We’ll discuss it later,” Adrian said, gray eyes hard as steel.

“No we won’t,” she muttered.

“Mrs. Jenkinson is at home and will see you in the drawing room. If you’ll follow me, Lord and Lady Smythe.” He started up the stairs, and Sophia followed with Adrian behind her.

The drawing room, Sophia noted. Not the parlor, where the butler had sought Mrs. Jenkinson and where she had probably been entertaining her other guests. No, the drawing room was for formal callers. Which she supposed they were, being as she didn’t know Lady Jenkinson from the Queen.

Well, actually, she had met the Queen…

“Lord and Lady Smythe,” the butler intoned after throwing the drawing-room doors open.

Sophia stepped inside a room somewhat less gloomy than the vestibule and stared as a woman in the middle stages of pregnancy rose to greet her.

Sophia felt her heart stutter, and a great lump rose in her throat. She opened her mouth, but no words came. Nothing but a horrible groaning sound.

Quite suddenly, she felt Adrian’s hand on her back. His touch was warm, steadying. He pulled her close and said, “Mrs. Jenkinson, how good to finally meet you at last. My wife tells me so much of your charitable works with the orphans.”

He drew her forward, and somehow Sophia forced her legs to move closer and closer to the pregnant woman before her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t look at anything but the woman’s pregnant belly, and she wanted nothing more than escape. She would have preferred to stand before a firing squad rather than remain one moment more in this woman’s presence. Her brain screamed, her hands shook, and her heart pounded. Only by concentrating on the feel of Adrian’s hand at her back did she remain upright.

“The orphans?” Mrs. Jenkinson looked confused, but she indicated a settee. Adrian sat and pulled Sophia down beside him.

“You and Sophia are both members of the Benevolent Society for the Aid and Prosperity of Orphans. Correct?” He looked at Sophia, playing the doting husband. “Did I make a muddle of the name again, dear?”

“Ah—” She cleared her throat. “No. That’s it. Darling,” she added the endearment too late. And how did he suddenly rattle off the name perfectly? She was going to have to pay closer attention to him. She kept forgetting he was Agent Wolf.

She kept forgetting everything—except Mrs. Jenkinson’s condition. After the last loss, Sophia had been so careful to avoid pregnant women. Now Mrs. Jenkinson absently rubbed a hand over her belly, and Sophia felt her heart constrict. Could Mrs. Jenkinson see how Sophia longed to feel her own belly swell with child? Could Adrian see her heart breaking? She couldn’t take this anymore. She had to get away.

She tried to rise, but Adrian gripped her hand and yanked her down.

“Oh, of course,” Mrs. Jenkinson said. “I’m afraid I haven’t attended many meetings lately. I’ve been in mourning.”

Mourning. Of course. Her husband was dead, murdered.
Focus
on
the
mission.

But Adrian stepped in before Sophia’s foggy mind cleared completely.

“We were saddened to hear of the death of Mr. Jenkinson. We came to offer our condolences.”

“Oh, I see.” The look on Mrs. Jenkinson’s face clearly indicated she didn’t see. “Thank you.”

“It seems an awful business,” Sophia said before Jenkinson’s wife could turn the conversation or Adrian could snatch it out from under her again. “Were you at home that night?”

“I—ah—” The hesitation spoke volumes.

For the first time, Sophia noted Mrs. Jenkinson’s face. She should have done so upon entering the room, but she’d been too distracted by the woman’s pregnancy. Now she quickly took in the whole picture. Mrs. Jenkinson was in her early thirties. She was pretty, her features refined and set by age and a little of life’s experience. She’d lost the wide-eyed innocence and sweetness of youth, and it had been replaced by a calm serenity. Or perhaps that was the effect of the pregnancy. But Sophia wasn’t going to think about that.

Mrs. Jenkinson had brown hair, styled simply but attractively, wide-set brown eyes framed by arched brows, and a thin but pleasant mouth. Her cheeks were rosy, but Sophia did not think she used cosmetic enhancements. Her dress was unremarkable. She wore black crepe and no jewelry or other adornment. Mrs. Jenkinson looked like the perfect grieving widow.

But she had not been home the night her husband was murdered. Her hesitation and the look of pure guilt that crossed her features said that much.

“I’m afraid I really don’t want to talk about that night,” the widow finally managed. “You understand.”

“We do,” Adrian said, voice sympathetic. “Are you close to your brother-in-law? Lord Liverpool?”

“Robert? Why?”

“We are friends of the prime minister, and he mentioned Bow Street had not yet solved your husband’s murder. He asked if I—we—might look into the matter.”

Sophia pursed her lips in annoyance. Now he’d only confused the poor woman.