A Scandalous Secret: Spies and Lovers Page 2

  Victoria hadn’t expected the tendresse to progress to talk of an elopement. Second—and third and fourth—thoughts had sprouted after subtle questioning had revealed Lord Berkwith had amassed a large debt gambling. Victoria couldn’t fathom how that much could be lost in a single year. Was the gleam in Lord Beckwith’s eyes when they alit upon Eleanor true love or avarice?

  Victoria drank her tea and pushed the runny yolk of her egg around her plate with a triangle of toast. Her stomach was a mass of nerves, and not all of them could be attributed to Eleanor’s romantic entanglements. An unholy number of them were because of the man standing outside her father’s study only a few feet away.

  Thomas Garrick. The man was a cipher. He exuded a raw physicality some found intimidating but she found darkly attractive. He was nothing like the gentlemen who danced attendance on her at London’s social gatherings, because he wasn’t a gentleman. His solid grip on her arm was evidence of that. She rubbed the place he had touched, her skin still tingling.

  His dark eyes were calculating yet kind. And his voice… The deep silk was luxurious and mesmerizing and invited her to confess all her secrets. Secrets that went beyond promises made to a friend. Secrets like dreams where she woke tangled in her sheets, her body longing for Thomas to escort her through the door he’d cracked open with his kiss. The memory was nearly two years old, but heat still flushed through her until she wished for a fan in December.

  At the time, she’d hoped it would be the start of something. Instead, her hopes had been cruelly dashed. Despair scuttled over her like clouds muting the sun. He would never kiss her again. A terrible mistake, he had called it. A moment of weakness from a man who was never weak.

  She was twenty. It was time to leave her childish fantasies and dreams behind and choose someone suitable. Her mother was pushing her to marry into the ton. An heir to a title was out of her reach, but a second or third son would be a coup. Her father, on the other hand, would prefer her to choose a well-connected man with political aspirations.

  As for herself… She wanted the one man she could never have.

  “What were you and Garrick discussing so intently?” Her mother eyed her over the paper as if she could see straight into the maelstrom of Victoria’s thoughts.

  “Nothing.” The knee-jerk response came out like a defensive jab. Victoria cleared her throat, dropped a sugar cube into her tea, and stirred. “That is to say, nothing of import. Only our plans for yuletide. I asked Thomas where he planned to bide his time.”

  Her mother’s mouth tightened as if readying a lecture on the improper use of Garrick’s given name. It was an old argument, and one Victoria had long ago won. Her mother snapped the paper in annoyance but only said, “Harold probably has some errand for the boy. I’m sure he prefers to stay busy seeing as he has no family to speak of.”

  “He has us,” Victoria said hotly.

  Too hotly based on her mother’s glare. “Your father acquired Garrick to fill a position. He should be grateful he was not forced into manual labor or worse.”

  Victoria bit her tongue. Her mother had always been sensitive to Thomas’s position. If Lady Hawkins had provided her husband with a son, Thomas would not have played such a prominent role in their household. It was a wound that pained her mother and manifested as a muted resentment toward Thomas.

  Victoria regarded her mother over the rim of her teacup. “Perhaps he would have been better off doing an honest day’s work instead of the skullduggery Father requires.”

  While they engaged in a tacit agreement not to discuss Sir Hawkins’s duties, Victoria was not dense. Men—and sometimes women—with the same hard edge as Thomas arrived at all hours during the day and night bearing messages. Thomas occasionally disappeared and returned battered and bruised, a haunted, hunted look reflecting from the obsidian depths of his eyes.

  “Garrick is better educated than any man of his station. He was lucky your father recognized his potential.” Her mother folded the paper and did not meet Victoria’s eyes, which said more than the platitude she offered.

  Victoria supposed there was some truth to it. Thomas had come to them as a tall, gangly, underfed fourteen-year-old clutching a sackcloth of meager possessions. She’d been eleven, pudgy and fearless, yet lonely as an only child.

  Thomas had done his best to ignore her, concentrating on excelling in his studies with a desperation she didn’t understand then. His disinterest in her hadn’t mattered. She had been smitten. Thomas had imprinted on her at a precarious time and awakened something inside of her that could never be caged again.

  A sudden thought made her heart catch. Did he have a special friend to spend the yuletide holiday with? A lady friend?

  “Victoria.” The admonishing way her name was spoken made Victoria look up like a hare hearing the bark of a hunting dog. Had her mother guessed the bent of her thoughts? “We need to discuss your future.”

  “Do we?” Nerves sizzled in her stomach.

  “Your second season ended without an offer.”

  “It did indeed,” Victoria said with trepidation. It was a fact she couldn’t dispute.

  “You have many boon companions that come to call, your dance card is always full, yet no gentleman has caught your attention or earned your encouragement.”

  “No, I suppose not.” The direction of the conversation felt dire. “Are you growing impatient to have me settled in my own household?”

  Her mother’s sigh was more than slightly frustrated. “Don’t you want your own household? Don’t you dream of having children?”

  Victoria imagined herself waiting for her husband to return from his ventures while mending his socks. It seemed dreadfully dull. And children? She’d never spent much time in their company, but from her observations while walking in the park, they were loud and usually on the grubby side of cleanliness. Not the stuff of dreams.

  However, she couldn’t fault her mother’s line of questioning. It was reasonable considering her age and the amount of money her parents had spent on presenting her to London’s finest citizens. No, the trouble with her mother’s question was Victoria couldn’t picture a husband.

  The gentlemen she’d met over the past two seasons had not inspired any sort of passion. In fact, the wide-eyed romanticism instilled by her reading was slowly but surely transforming into a more jaded view of men. The longer she was on the marriage mart, the more she felt like cattle. Instead of a dance card, presenting her breeding credentials and her dowry to the ha’penny would save everyone time.

  “Of course I would like to marry and have my own household?” False enthusiasm turned her answer into a question. She should be a better liar, considering her father was an artist in the medium. Something to ponder another time. “To be honest, I haven’t met a gentleman who stirs my senses.”

  “Your senses?” Her mother tipped her head and regarded Victoria for a long moment like a scientific experiment gone wrong. “You should not rely on your senses to choose a husband. Your senses will betray you. Marriage is a structure that will provide you and your children security. If you choose wisely.”

  “What about love?”

  Her mother’s smile held a ghostly sadness that lived in a past Victoria wasn’t privy to. “Love is fleeting. Love won’t keep you warm and fed and comfortable.”

  Had her mother’s heart ever skipped a beat and her breath caught when her father entered a room? “Did—do—you and Father love one another?”

  “Your father and I rub along well enough.” Her mother rose, and Victoria did the same, leaving them facing off over an audience of kippers. “I want you to become serious about seeking a husband, Victoria. That was my point of this conversation. The Barclay’s house party will be an opportunity for you to make a choice.”

  “You want me to pick a husband during a week-long house party?”

  “Several suitable men you are already acquainted with will be attending. Lord Crenshaw, for instance. Although he is only a baron, his holdings a
re respectable, and he has an interest in politics.”

  “Lord Crenshaw is an insufferable popinjay who is twenty years older than I. We would never suit.” All the excitement of the house party was being stomped to bits.

  Her mother’s gaze dropped to look the kippers in the eye instead of Victoria. “If not him, what about Lord Percival? He’s not much older than you. A third son, but I’ve heard he will receive a generous living.”

  “He’s nice enough, I suppose.” Victoria couldn’t imagine facing off with Lord Percival over the breakfast table every morning. He was as bland and boring as a water biscuit. Palatable, but not tempting in any way unless nursing an upset tummy.

  “Such a match would offer you a future and protect you. Your father is in agreement.”

  “Father wants me gone? He believes I need protection?” Her father had never voiced an opinion on who did or did not court her. In fact, her father rarely accompanied them on social occasions, and when he did, he often departed early. He had hitherto shown no interest in her marriage prospects beyond providing a modest dowry and coin enough for a suitable wardrobe.

  Her mother leaned over the table. “You are strong willed and independent.”

  “You speak as if those are not admirable traits.”

  Her mother’s face could only be described as exasperated. “Gentlemen prefer docile, agreeable wives.”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t marry a gentleman then.” Victoria crossed her arms, her mood nearing an all-out sulk. “You aren’t a docile, agreeable wife, and Father doesn’t seem to mind.”

  While it wasn’t the nicest of phrasing, it was perfectly truthful. In contrast to her delicate frame, her mother had a stalwart personality and tended to run roughshod over anyone who disagreed with her.

  Her mother cleared her throat and tried a smile that did nothing to assuage the dread settling on Victoria’s shoulders like a shawl weaved of maternal expectations and crushed dreams.

  “Let’s not argue. We have an appointment to keep. I’ll call for the carriage.” Her mother swept out of the room.

  The ticking of the clock was a grim accounting. How much time did she have before her life was at the mercy of a husband she would have little say over choosing? A knife of resentment was at her throat.

  Despite her reservations, she promised herself to do whatever it took to help her friend Eleanor attain the happiness that felt out of reach for herself.

  Chapter 2

  Garrick nodded at the man who slipped out of Sir Hawkins’s study like a wraith. It was the only acknowledgment given or received. Names meant nothing to the agents who came and went. They could be slipped on and off like a hat.

  “Garrick,” Sir Hawkins called out.

  Garrick pushed himself off the wall and entered the study. Sir Hawkins was seated behind the desk writing a missive. His movements were economical, but Garrick noted an unusual fitfulness in the way he signed his name. Remaining silent, Garrick stood and waited, his hands behind his back.

  “I want you to accompany Victoria and Lady Hawkins on their errands this morning.” Sir Hawkins didn’t look up as he blotted his note before folding and sealing it with wax.

  “Why?” Garrick narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t asking to be difficult but because something had obviously happened to prompt the unusual request. “You don’t trust Henry and Callum?”

  The footman and groom who usually accompanied the Hawkins ladies on their outings had been trained by Garrick himself. They were capable of defending themselves and the ladies.

  “The longer the war drags on, the greater the unrest grows.” It was a typically cryptic thing for Sir Hawkins to say, but Garrick didn’t discount the network of men and women and even children who passed whispers to Sir Hawkins. Some solidified into truths, and some dissipated like smoke.

  “Have threats been made against Miss Hawkins or Lady Hawkins?” Garrick’s shoulders tensed and pulled the fabric of his jacket taut.

  “Not precisely.” Hawkins was often infuriatingly vague. “But I would feel more at ease if you were to accompany them in the carriage and remain at their side as they shop. Can I count on you?”

  “I would protect Miss Hawkins with my life,” Garrick said with more emotion than he intended.

  Sir Hawkins looked up and stared at Garrick without blinking. It was quite unnerving. The urge to shift on his feet became a compulsion he barely halted.

  Becoming aware not so much of what he’d said but what he hadn’t said, Garrick added hastily, “And Lady Hawkins, of course.”

  “Of course.” A gleam flashed in Sir Hawkins’s eyes, but as the rest of his face was bland, Garrick didn’t know how to interpret it.

  “I’ll watch for anything out of the ordinary and report back, sir.” Garrick turned on his heel, exited the study, and tamped down any anticipation at spending the morning in Victoria’s company.

  This was not a carefree outing with a lady he might be more than slightly in love with. The mere thought must be eradicated. It was impossible.

  After having a word with Callum and Henry, Garrick waited at the curb beside the carriage for the ladies, hands behind his back, his body still. Lady Hawkins descended the front stairs and treated him like a lamppost, ignoring his presence entirely.

  Victoria was halfway down before she looked up and noticed him. The shadows casting worries across her face were banished by her radiant smile. For him. He smiled back. The muscles in his cheeks protested the rare usage.

  Lady Hawkins entered the carriage with Callum’s help. Victoria took the last steps slowly, her gaze never leaving his. She had donned a brown fur-lined pelisse with matching collar and cuffs. Her gloves were brown kid, and a reticule in the same yellow as her dress swung from her wrist. Springs of her black hair had escaped her bonnet to frame her face. The untamed wildness suited her.

  He stepped forward before Callum could offer his hand. With no hesitation, she slipped her hand into his. Time splintered. The world spun on around them, but all he could see and feel was her. Such a simple thing, yet lightning arced between them.

  After avoiding her for two years, they had touched three times in one morning. It was too much. Or was it not enough? Her thumb skimmed over the back of his hand with an unmistakable pressure. He tried not to read anything into the touch, but his fingers answered the call and clasped hers tighter. Even as he cataloged the delicacy of her hand, he noted her strength.

  Then she was inside the carriage, and he drew his empty hand into a fist as if he could hang on to the feel of her. He swallowed and shook himself free from the spell she’d cast over him. He wasn’t here to play patty-fingers with Victoria. He had a duty to perform.

  He looked up and down the street, taking careful note of the other carriages and a man strolling in a black hat and swinging his cane. Nothing struck him as out of the ordinary. After giving Callum a nod, he joined the ladies in the carriage on the opposite squab. Callum would ride with the coachman, and Henry on the back. Each of them carried a pistol.

  The interior of the carriage was dim after the unusually bright sunshine of the day. It wouldn’t last long. Stacked clouds portending snow loomed on the horizon. The carriage jolted forward. Lady Hawkins continued to ignore him and stared at the passing scenery.

  London wasn’t crowded this time of year. Most of the ton had retreated to their country houses long ago, but a few families remained in London through the yuletide season if they couldn’t garner an invitation elsewhere or had business in town like Sir Hawkins.

  “Why are you accompanying us?” Victoria tilted her head, her gaze fixed on him. “Have you developed a keen eye for ladies’ fashions, then?”

  “I have many talents.” He kept his face bland. “Or so I’ve been told.”

  The corners of her mouth twitched with puckish charm.

  The memory of how soft and supple her lips had been and probably still were—not that he would get the chance to verify—was distracting him. He forced his gaze from her mouth to
the window. Distractions were deadly. Even ones as tempting as the coveted memory of their one and only kiss.

  “There’s naught to worry over,” he said.

  “Who said I was worried?” While the sentiment was lighthearted, her voice was heavy.

  He shot her a look, but it was her turn to stare out the window. Her profile gave none of her true thoughts away. He had no right to her confidences, but he was a patient man. It was one of his strengths. He would wait and watch and do whatever he could to help relieve her burdens.

  The carriage pulled to a stop. Garrick didn’t wait for Callum to open the door. He did it himself, positioning his bulk in the opening to protect Lady Hawkins and Victoria from possible threats. He made a quick study of his surroundings.

  Two gentlemen stood in conversation farther down the street in front of a shop, but neither glanced at the carriage. Another man exited the shop next door and turned the collar of his greatcoat up against the chill, heading in the opposite direction. A hack clattered past, pulled by a run-down nag, the jarvey buttoned up tight and wrapped in a scarf against the brisk wind.

  Garrick hopped to the curb and lowered the steps. Callum backed up to stand to the side of the modiste’s door, his cheeks ruddy from the cold, his expression alert to trouble. Lady Hawkins descended first, her hand lightly touching Garrick’s forearm for balance. Black hair streaked with gray peeked out of her bonnet. She had the same curls as her daughter, but she kept them under strict control, while Victoria’s rebelled, as if drawing from her personality.

  Victoria slipped her hand into his again, her grip firm. Her gaze remained on her feet, and he caught the flash of her stocking-covered calf above her half boots as she descended. He swallowed and released her with difficulty. The barrier he had arduously erected between them after their kiss had been demolished by the mere touch of her hand and flick of her hems.