Phoenix Rising (29 page)

Yet not exactly a bubbling brook of conversation either. Her green eyes rose once, and she murmured, “Good afternoon.”

“Once the flower of Hertfordshire,” Devane went on, running his eyes over the slim form like she was some racehorse that had broken down on the track, “but the bloom quickly wore off. I've had three sons off her though, so not a total loss.”

The hard knot in Eliza's throat would only be relieved by a howl of anger, but this was not the first time she'd come across this detestable nature. The Britons thought themselves so damn civilised, and yet denied half their population so much. The colonies Devane had spoken so dismissively of had given the vote to women two years ago. It was why Eliza loved frontier places most of all. No ancient conventions to fall back upon. Thanks to Wellington's impulsive character trait thrust upon her, she could not even offer Olivia words of feminine kindness.

This weekend Eliza would have to play the game of the submissive wife—and there could be no better template for it than Lady Olivia Devane.

Wellington broke her concentration momentarily with a show of aristocrat wit. “Nothing off Hyacinth yet,” he said in a tone that almost perfectly mimicked Devane's, “but the ring is barely warm on her finger. I get to enjoy her for a while before putting her out to pasture.”

“I am sure you do.” The vile aristocrat blew a cloud of smoke and through it shot her a knowing smile.

Eliza returned a meek, demure smile, while in her mind she continued to ram Bartholomew's own nose into his skull. Her imagination also conjured Wellington on his knees, hog-tied next to Devane, watching the carnage . . . and knowing he was next.

“
Hyacinth!
” Wellington snapped, making Eliza start. “Stop with your incessant daydreaming
and come!
”

As soon as they found a moment, Eliza was going to have a word with Wellington's character choices.

Inside, the hall was full of the usual dark wooden paneling and dead creatures' heads hanging on the walls. Eliza hated such places; the feeling of sad, doomed eyes watching her everywhere was intense. People, evil people she had faced every day in her fieldwork were one thing—but animals were different. The killing of them merely for sport was something she found abhorrent.

Devane looked at them askance while his wife, much in the manner small creatures would hide from a predator, swiftly moved to a corner both dark and out of their way. “Well, I'll let you settle in. Our hosts won't be back until”—his eyes drifted to Eliza—“dinner.” His peculiar emphasis on that last word made her stomach clench. His teeth flashed as he smiled. “I look forward to you seeing the dishes Havelock serves for dessert. He's well known for them.”

Devane held out his hand and Olivia took it, but only by giving him just the tips of her fingers. Together they disappeared into what looked like the study.

The pain of clenching her teeth was the only thing Eliza concentrated on as a footman led them upstairs to their room, a pair of porters following in their wake bearing their cases. The footman opened a polished oak door, and there was their home for the weekend. She stood next to Wellington—as silent as his quick thinking had made her—taking in their luxurious country dwellings: a good-sized bedroom with a fine aspect over the garden, a four-poster bed with a large vanity at its foot, a collection of old masters on the walls, and a gramophone gleaming and new by the window.

“Dinner is in an hour,” the servant, a tall and slightly imposing figure, informed them in deliberate, measured tones. Inclining his head for a moment, he silently exited, leaving them to their business.

Wellington's mouth opened, but she held up her finger in warning. Then once she had discerned the retreating footsteps of the manservant, Eliza spun on Wellington, grabbed him by the lapels, and—with a sigh of expectation and want—threw him onto the bed.

The wind went out of the Archivist, his eyes widened, and his mouth opened in shock; but before words could come out of him, Eliza pounced. She had the confused and somewhat overwhelmed Wellington pinned under her, and when she descended on him, he almost let out a scream, but a giggle burst out of him.

Eliza breathed easier, thankful Wellington was so ticklish.

She hissed in his ear, and her warning silenced him. “This time,
you
follow
my
lead, Welly. Most likely this room is observed. Just listen to me, and play along.”

It was imperative he not wreck the moment. His hair was thick between her fingers as she yanked his head to one side and appeared to nibble on his neck. Underneath her the Archivist was struggling to find a place to put his hands. Finally he settled on her waist as she was straddling him.

She took the chance to hiss her anger into his skin. “Don't you think I have the skills to change my accent? Don't you think in all this time in the Ministry I have learned how to do that?” And then she sank her teeth into him, the “playful nip” a bit too hard to be playful.

His laugh became a sharp cry. “OW! Hyacinth, please—control yourself,” Wellington said, rather louder than was required. Then he muttered against her hair, “I didn't . . . I'm so sorry I didn't think . . .”

“No, you did not!” Eliza took delight in grinding herself against him, a kind of savage repayment for effectively silencing her for their stay. “Improvisations like that could be the death of us. However, while I have been in worse situations, you may have done us both a favour.” She nipped his ear for good measure, and was satisfied with his little yelp.

“How—how—how—” he whispered breathlessly. Eliza tugged on his hair to clear his head, but she was flattered at his reactions. “How so?” he finally wheezed into her ear.

Eliza sat up, remaining straddled across her “husband.” As she stripped off her coat and gloves, she let out a little low growl. If anyone spied upon them they would be in no doubt of the very passionate marriage the St. Johns shared. They would also be in for a show.

When she dropped back into his embrace, she found her anger dissipating. “Stupid toffs will be more likely to make mistakes in front of a ‘cripple.' ”

The headiness working through Eliza caught her by surprise. House spies be damned—she had to stop. It was so easy to pretend, particularly with Harry, like this; but they knew as partners where limits were, considering their Budapest operation had almost strayed too far into the heat of the moment. Harry had recognised that, and brought the deception to the end.

Wellington, as she felt between her legs, had gone well passed his restraints and was on the verge of swooning.

For a moment she and Wellington looked at each other directly, the tips of their noses brushing. The look on his face, particularly in his eyes, was betrayal. Eliza blinked, feeling a tightness in her throat. She wanted to hold him close now, cry in his shoulder, and let him know—

Eliza scrambled to grab Wellington but her fingers grazed the fabric of his suit just before she bounced off the edge of the bed. She then crashed against the floor, her head rapping its hard wood so violently that stars exploded before her.

“Damnation, woman,” his voice was a little unsteady, but he was putting enough venom and contempt into his tenor to compensate for it.

She heard him get to his feet, but when he came around the bed, Eliza actually found herself scrambling back from him. Her fingers itched. She needed a Derringer now.

“Do that again, and I'll make sure your punishment is
most
appropriate.” His eyes were cold, empty. The Archivist was gone. This man was a stranger to her. “Now if you are finished, we should prepare for dinner.” He turned to the basin of water at the vanity. “My evening wear, Hyacinth.”

Eliza scrambled back to her feet and just stared at Wellington as he splashed his face. Their eyes met in the reflection of the mirror, and it was he that looked on the verge of tears now.

Sorry
, he mouthed.

Eliza had never been so happy to see Welly. She tweaked his nose and shot him a playful wink. No, this wasn't her first time in the field, but it was his; and bless the man, he was trying. She busied herself flinging open their luggage. Her own fingers were trembling, partially due to Wellington's erratic behaviour, but also from her own shortness of breath, the prickle of heat in her skin. Yes, perhaps she had enjoyed that erotic deception too much and Welly's reaction was needed to bring them back into the seriousness of their situation.

Wellington held up one of the gowns she had brought with her, the low V-neck and floating white sleeves causing him to look at Eliza askance. “Do you think this is the wisest thing to wear in unknown company?”

Now there's my little Welly
, she thought playfully. With a wicked smile, Eliza produced a dinner jacket cut in the latest fashion.

The Archivist cleared his throat. After examining the offering, he raised an eyebrow. “Hyacinth, I was not aware that you knew my measurements so well.”

It was probably a good thing that she couldn't use her voice or she might have said any number of saucy replies to that.

Instead she turned around and gestured to her lacings. When she felt no aid forthcoming, she glared at him over her shoulder. This really wouldn't do. Especially since he'd loosened her well enough when she'd been drunk.

Finally, on catching Eliza's silent plea for assistance, Wellington began tugging and pulling at her. He certainly wouldn't make much of decent lady's maid.

Eliza slipped behind the painted Chinese screen and quickly stripped off the rest of her clothes. She knew pushing Wellington any further would have consequences and she needed him razor sharp. However, she also needed to get dressed for the evening. His sense of modesty would have to adapt. Stepping out with only the row of tiny buttons at the back of the dress undone, she again presented her back.

“I confess,” Wellington whispered, pulling the lacings tight, “the use of your femininity as a weapon I find deeply disturbing. Tread . . .” he hissed into her ear with each tug, “. . . with . . . caution.”

With a sigh, Eliza contemplated that surprising revelation. Not that it was surprising in itself, just that he had expressed it.

With a stare too long to be complimentary but also not as menacing as moments before, Wellington gathered up his evening suit and disappeared behind the screen to dress as well. With parts of her still tingling from their roll on the bed, Eliza felt a temptation to peek—but decided there were some mysteries she should not investigate just yet. Besides, she had rattled him (and herself) enough tonight already.

With Wellington slipping into his tailored evening wear, Eliza tended to one other piece of housekeeping. She moved to the walls and began carefully and silently examining them.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

A fingertip inspection found no watching holes, which were always a danger in an old house like this.

Snap! Snap! Snap!

Behind the paintings, underneath the bed, in or around small room fixtures, her eyes searched for wires or contraptions akin to Wellington's impressive auralscope.

“
Hyacinth!
” Wellington snapped.

The exquisite vase Eliza had been inspecting danced in her hand and then stopped when she regained her grip on it. She held the vase up as if to hurl it at him, and that was when she realised he was only half dressed, his shirt showing off more flesh she had ever seen from him.

This must be serious.

“I was trying to be polite and not call upon you like my hunting hound”—but he was gesturing wildly to the gramophone by the window, his face not cross but a bit pale—“but if I must, I shall. Fetch my cuff links.”

He then mouthed a word Eliza couldn't make sense of. On his third, exasperated try, she finally recognised it as
auralscope
, and she understood. Gramophones were conspicuous displays of wealth. It was one reason behind the purchase of hers. They were still new and quite the statement of one's status. As she came closer to this gramophone, though, her senses prickled. Its base was all wrong. There was something odd about it, but she could not place her finger on exactly what it was.

“Did you look over there?” Wellington asked from behind the Chinese screen, holding out Eliza's baldrick of bladed weapons. “Well, keep looking.”

She nodded in approval as she took the leather sash from him. Wellington was a fast learner.

Drawing her favourite Elsener knife, Eliza pried the side off the luxurious, ornate device and peered in. To her it looked a collection of clockwork, chassis, and gears, much like her own gramophone; but then her eyes caught sight of the rotating cylinder tucked within the array. The gramophone was not cranked, but still the cylinder rotated, and that was when she saw the thin wire that ran out of the gramophone and into the wall.
Well done, Welly.

No sooner had she thought that commendation, Wellington Thornhill Books stepped out from behind the screens and stopped before the room's tiny fireplace, as if waiting for her approval.