My Lady, My Spy (Secrets and Seduction Book 4) (6 page)

Despite wanting to hurry into the carriage, she paused and stared into its dim interior as she considered the question. Should she return to the Koliada Ball? She glanced back at the front door of Woolsy House. She dreaded the thought of returning to the Russian ambassador’s stuffy, overheated ballroom, but her quiet home didn’t appeal to her either. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of anyplace else she wanted to go at this time of the night. Not alone. She let out a heavy sigh. “Home,” she said.

As she settled inside the carriage, her thoughts drifted to the book currently sitting on the table next to her bed, and she gave a slight smile. She’d been looking forward to reading more about the tomb Mr. Fellows had discovered in Lycia, and tonight would offer her the perfect opportunity. Charles Fellows had discovered what appeared to be a Greek tomb in Anatolia— a region that had never been a part of Greece. The elaborate and enormous structure was a mystery, one she found fascinating.

Josephine unfolded the traveling blanket from the seat next to her and draped it across both her lap and Mrs. Drummer’s. The coachman handed each of them a hot brick wrapped in cloth. Josephine cupped her hands around hers on her lap, savoring its warmth.

She stared down at her gloved hands in the dim interior glow of the carriage lamp, but the image was immediately replaced by the memory of Frederick’s fire-ravaged hands.

Tonight had been entirely unexpected, from beginning to end.

What was she to do about Frederick? He’d slowly and relentlessly pursued her for months, never giving up until he’d finally broken down her resistance and seduced his way into her bed and into her heart. He’d convinced her she was special. That she was important to him—

And then he’d ignored her.

Had his presence at the embassy ball truly been a last-minute decision, or had he simply lied to her? The mere fact that this was a question in her mind told her a great deal about their relationship.

Obviously, she didn’t trust him.

He’d lied to her before, she was certain of it, but only to conceal his activities as a spy. At least, that's what she’d always believed.

Now she wasn’t as certain. He might have been on a mission tonight, but that didn’t explain why he’d avoided her all week.

“The burns on Mr. Woolsy’s right hand were severe,” Mrs. Drummer said as she placed her basket on the floor by their feet. “He’ll recover, but I’ll wager his sense of touch will be dulled for quite a few years.”

“In both hands?” she asked, alarmed. Josephine wished she could make out Mrs. Drummer’s features in the dim interior light of the carriage, but she could only see well enough to catch her movement as she shook her head.

“The ones on his left hand aren’t as bad. He should recover well enough.”

A coil of tension eased. “That’s good news.” She rubbed her fingers together, wondering what it would be like to lose the sensation of touch. She hoped it wouldn’t hinder his work as a spy.

Being a spy meant everything to Frederick. It was his passion. She couldn’t imagine separating the man from the role.

“I’m relieved to hear he plans to rest,” Mrs. Drummer said. “He’ll have a bad night of it. Those burns will keep him awake.”

“I was worried he wouldn’t see reason. Once he’s chosen a course of action, he doesn’t change his mind easily.”

Mrs. Drummer nodded. “So he’s one of those, is he? He had me fooled.”

“One of those what?” Josephine peered at the woman’s face in the darkness, but couldn’t make out her expression.

“I’ve found injured men tend to fall into one of two broad categories. One group is chock full of men who are stubborn when it comes to their own healing. Their technique is to ignore the problem until it goes away on its own. I think it’s because they hate to show any weakness. The other group— well, they’re quite the opposite. They demand their due and expect everyone to cater to them, even when faced with a minor injury. Mr. Woolsy must be one of those rare men who doesn’t fall into either category.”

Josephine nodded. Her husband had been in that second category. She hadn’t minded coddling him when he wasn’t feeling well, but it would have been nice if he’d reciprocated when she’d been in a similar state. Instead, he’d avoided her when she was ill. He’d said he wanted her to rest and recuperate, but if so, why did he demand so much of her attention when he was unwell?

“At first I thought your Mr. Woolsy belonged in that first group, but I changed my mind when he turned into such a pussycat after I applied the poultice. Now I can’t place him in either category.”

“Is that so uncommon? I’d think anyone would be swayed to do as you say after they experience the effectiveness of your treatment.”

“Men aren’t nearly as logical as they’d like you to believe. Certainly not when they believe their masculinity is being threatened. Those stubborn ones tend to decide they were originally mistaken regarding the severity of the pain rather than admitting my poultice helped them. If you’re right about how determined Mr. Woolsy is, his decision to stay home seems to go against character. Perhaps you hold more sway over him than you realize.”

Josephine pulled at her glove, pleased to know she could encourage Frederick to behave responsibly regarding his health. Perhaps he truly did care for her.

Like errant children ignoring their mother’s orders, Josephine’s thoughts returned to Frederick’s lie— the one in which he’d told her he couldn’t attend tonight’s ball. It worried her to know he’d deceived her so casually. So thoughtlessly. As though lying to her had become a reflex rather than a conscious decision.

Considering the nights they’d spent together, he should have been more solicitous toward her. Was it possible he didn’t value her? The thought caused her stomach to tighten into a knot. She’d believed they had something more. Something real. Had she been fooling herself?

She tightened her grip on the cloth-wrapped brick. She wouldn’t waste her time pining away for a man who didn’t respect her. She refused to debase herself in such a way. Even if she managed to capture his attention, a man whose heart wasn’t committed would quickly slip away. No, she firmly believed that a man she had to chase wasn’t a man worth having. If he truly wanted her, he’d be the one to pursue her, not the other way around.

But Frederick
had
pursued her. Relentlessly. For an entire year.

Perhaps behavior earlier tonight had been an aberration. Perhaps he’d been telling her the truth about his last-minute change of plans. He’d also mentioned that alcohol had a strong effect on him. That, combined with his burns, might explain why he’d seemed so distant for much of the night.

The evening had ended so well. She’d enjoyed the time they’d spent alone together. She only wished it could have lasted longer. When he was open and honest with her, things were good between them. Tonight proved it.

Weighing her options, she finally decided to give Frederick one last chance. She’d drop off those poultice supplies in two days, speak with him, and then make a decision about their future together.

She hoped she wouldn’t be forced to excise him from her life, but it would be better to do it now than to let his lies and her distrust poison their relationship.

Without trust, how could love flourish?

§

The moment Josephine stepped out the front door of Woolsy House, Frederick sensed her absence. He’d felt it acutely all week, and seeing her tonight made him ache for her all the more. He’d have loved nothing more than to send away her housekeeper and keep Josephine with him all night long.

He let out a sigh. He wasn’t fooling himself. He wanted to keep Josephine much longer than one night.

But that wasn’t an option. She couldn’t be his tonight. Perhaps not ever.

With a mental shake, he drove her from his thoughts and rang for Landon.

The butler appeared moments later. “I need to go out again,” Frederick announced. He barely noticed his butler’s grim-faced expression. The man so frequently disapproved of Frederick’s actions that his face perpetually appeared as though he’d been sucking on a lemon. “Have the carriage brought around. Tell Turner he needs to accompany me. Instruct him to bring writing supplies.”

“Yes, sir.” Landon’s voice held a droning quality that never quite revealed his opinion on any matter, but which always sounded disapproving. “I believe he retired for the evening, but I’m certain he can be ready to depart within ten minutes.”

“That will do.” The young footman Turner had proven adept as a spy’s assistant. In fact, Frederick often wondered whether the young man might be of more help to England if he worked directly for the Foreign Office. He sometimes felt guilty keeping Turner in his employ as a footman, but— blast it— he’d be lost without the man’s help. Of course, if Turner came to work for him in the Foreign Office—

That was an intriguing idea.

When Frederick glanced up, Landon still stood before him. “Was there something else?”

“I couldn’t help but overhear you earlier, sir. You mentioned you were staying
in
for the evening.” Landon glanced at Frederick’s bandaged hands. “Has the poultice wrought some miracle?”

“Sarcasm, Landon? You astonish me.” He shook his head. “I’ll be fine. And to answer your question, yes, this poultice
has
been bloody well miraculous. Go fetch Turner, and be quick about it.”

Landon was letting his tongue run away with him more and more often these days. That was the problem with having a butler who’d held the position since before Frederick had been born. He often behaved more like a family member than a servant.

Landon turned on his heel and strode out the door, his disapproval evident in each precise step, but at least he was doing as Frederick had directed.

A half hour later, Frederick and Turner sat side by side in Robert’s carriage. They waited not far from Monsieur LeCompte’s townhouse, and their vantage point offered a clear view of the front door. They both watched through LeCompte’s brightly lit windows as he moved from room to room. He didn’t appear to expect any guests, nor was he dressed to go out.

Perhaps Frederick had been wrong. Perhaps LeCompte wasn’t the thief’s accomplice. Or perhaps she’d already come and gone. Or perhaps LeCompte knew they were watching. Perhaps— perhaps— it was a perpetual guessing game. As he stared at the windows, Frederick evaluated the possibilities and developed a plan for each one.

Once he was satisfied with his mental preparations, Frederick let himself relax, if only a little. He still had work to do.

“I’m going to take a look around the area. Let me know if anyone comes to his house while I’m gone, anyone at all. Even if it’s a deliveryman. If someone comes within ten feet of that door, I want to know.”

“Yes, sir,” Turner said.

“I’ll only be gone for a few minutes, but if LeCompte leaves, you’ll need to follow him to find out who he’s meeting.”

Turner’s jaw flexed. “Yes, sir.”

Frederick twisted the carriage door handle. His hand didn't hurt nearly as much as it had an hour ago. Mrs. Drummer was a miracle worker, and Josephine was a wondrous woman indeed to have sent for her.

As he stepped into the night, he recalled some of the more wondrous abilities she’d displayed only a week ago. If mere memories could keep him warm, these could do it.

§

Frederick returned to the carriage and settled in to wait.

An hour or so later, Turner let out a hiss of warning. “LeCompte is preparing to leave.”

Frederick opened his eyes with a start of surprise. He must have begun to doze off. Reflexively, he curled his hands into fists, causing them to sear with renewed pain. The poultice’s powers were fading. The pain wasn’t acute. Not yet. But it was definitely worsening.

He fought to become more alert. The cold had seeped into every part of his body, leaving him stiff and miserable. He sat up straight and clumsily rubbed his eyes using his thumb and forefinger, only to wince yet again at his own stupidity as pain blossomed in his hand.

“Good work.” Frederick straightened himself in the seat and leaned forward to catch a glimpse of LeCompte through the window of the man’s house. “We’ll follow him. Let’s see if he goes on foot or in a carriage.” He analyzed the situation and quickly devised a plan. “I need you to wait in that alley and follow him on foot if necessary. If he gets in a carriage, hurry back and we’ll follow him together.”

As Turner opened the door and slipped outside, a chill gust of wind swept through the opening and drove away all remnants of fatigue still clinging to Frederick.

In the silence of the carriage, he kept his gaze pinned on the cobalt-blue rectangle of LeCompte’s front door. Night nearly robbed the bright paint of its color, making it appear as dull and lackluster as the other doors on the street.

A hackney pulled to a stop in front of the house. Was a guest arriving, or had one of LeCompte’s men sent for it? If so, he’d missed the servant’s exit. What else might he have missed? A moment later, the front door of the townhouse opened, spilling warm yellow light across the bright blue door.

LeCompte stepped outside as he adjusted the thick scarf around his neck against the chill. A young footman followed him. LeCompte paused and glanced up and down the street. LeCompte’s gaze seemed to stop on Frederick’s carriage for the briefest of moments, but then it moved on.