Espionage and the Earl Read online

  As he and Losif settled themselves in a hired coach that would take them to Belfast’s military regiment station, Max began to grow anxious. What if there was nothing after this? What if he couldn’t find any more clues as to where the Damarek had been taken? It was no small thing for Max to admit defeat on a mission. It had only ever happened once before, and that was because of the Viper herself.

  Even if it weren’t for his own pride, he didn’t know if he could live with himself if he failed this time. His country, and others, might very well go to war if something wasn’t done in time to placate Tsar Nicholas.

  Many operatives in Her Majesty’s service acted as if there weren’t ramifications to their actions at all, their flippancy having always annoyed Max. He knew it was a defense mechanism for handling the pressure they were constantly under, but he couldn’t help but think of everything that rode on his shoulders.

  Elorie Lavoie might feel the same way, he admitted. Perhaps she didn’t care about the artifact itself, or what it could mean for future conflicts, but he was sure that the completion of this mission was just as important to her as it was to him.

  Why he thought that made no sense. He really didn’t know her when all was said and done. Yet somehow, while competing against her these past few years, a grudging respect and familiarity had blossomed.

  Max couldn’t afford to let that perceived intimacy get in the way of what he needed to do. Whatever consequences awaited the Viper for failing could have no bearing on his conscience.

  When they arrived at the New Royal Army’s field office, Max’s status as the Earl of Eydris allowed for an expedited meeting with the general who presided there. He left Losif outside with a few coins and told him to buy a souvenir. Losif hadn’t understood what a souvenir was, having been rid of worldly possessions for a long time, so Max had explained with what he hoped was patience and then sent the giddy man off on his errand. These sorts of things were better handled alone.

  “What brings an English Peer all the way to Belfast, Lord Eydris?” the bearded man in uniform asked curiously.

  Max responded with an easy smile, the one somewhere between drawing-room banter and knowing his demands would be met regardless of the inconvenience to anyone else. “Sir, I am here on a Matter of State, if you can believe they put me to work these days. I have been sent as a diplomatic envoy to obtain some information regarding those involved in a joint mission to Scotland over a hundred years ago.”

  General McTavish raised his brows.

  Max had always been good at spinning tales at a moment’s notice, so he continued. “You see, one of the soldiers in the Royal Irish Army was awarded a medal and a small bequest by the king for his heroic deeds during that mission, but the man never came to England to claim it. Perhaps he was not able to come or perished before being able to do so. The reward would belong to his descendants, whom we believe still reside hereabouts on what was Ulster Plantation at the time.”

  McTavish scratched his thick beard. “’Tis a mighty good thing for a monarch to honor a reward given so long ago under someone else’s reign,” he said in even tones, though the man’s suspicion was clear to Max.

  “Yes, our young Victoria is eager to develop good relations with our brothers to the north and would like to use this as a gesture of goodwill.”

  The general nodded slowly. “I understand. T’would be my honor to assist ye in bestowing such an award. What was the name of the soldier? ’Tis possible his family still lives locally, but we have had some massive immigration movements over the years.”

  Max leaned forward. “Which is precisely why I need your help, sir. The name of the soldier in our records is unclear. The papers were damaged, and I only know his regiment number. It would have been the four hundred and thirty-seventh Regiment who went on a mission to the area of Edinburgh sometime between fifteen thirty-nine and when they disbanded. I was hoping your Regiment had inherited the records of such things.” Max knew it was a long shot, but what choice did he have now?

  McTavish whistled out through his mustache. “That’s quite a gap, Lord Eydris. We do have some of the records left over from the four thirty-seventh, but they would be down in the records room and I’m afraid not very well organized. How are you with digging through old papers, Milord?”

  Max smiled grimly. Why would he have assumed he’d be doing anything else on this mission?

  ****

  Elorie knew this day would come, but it still felt odd to die.

  It mostly felt very cold and dark, that part she had anticipated. But she hadn’t counted on how terrifyingly giddy it would feel at the moment. Breathing through the narrow railway piston pipe she had nicked from the factory in Edinburgh three days ago, Elorie clung to the dock piling two feet underwater. In and out. In and out. If she didn’t think about it, it wasn’t too awfully bad.

  As long as she was able to detach these infernal layers of skirts from her specially made gown, she would be able to easily swim back up to the surface and make her way to shore in a little while. She worked the pins of the skirts with one hand while holding the piston and piling with the other. Inch by inch, the layers of her skirts came undone until finally the mass fell away entirely to float down to the seabed beneath.

  Finally. Those silly things weighed as much as her great-aunt Tempi when wet. She didn’t open her eyes to wish her clothes good riddance, however, as the filthy saltwater was already bothering her from the few times she had dared to peek at her surroundings.

  A few more minutes should do it, she reasoned. The cold numbed her limbs quickly, though the weather above was a lovely spring evening in England. She knew Ruben well enough to gauge that he wouldn’t spend all that long trying to look for her body. Besides not wanting to be around when the authorities came, she knew he didn’t care whether or not she was alive. He might even have been glad of her death.

  But Devil take that French actor.

  When she had arranged to fake her death, she had specifically instructed him to wait until she was on the ramp to the ship itself. Instead, he had dramatically confronted her while she and Ruben were still on the docks readying to re-board the passenger ship that had docked to replenish supplies overnight in the small coastal town of Lowestoft. Why couldn’t people remember simple instructions? When he’d shot her with the blank round, he’d dramatically cried, “French scum! You broke my heart! Now I’ll break yours!”

  Elorie hadn’t had time to roll her eyes in exasperation as she was pretending to fall backward from the blow. But because of his idiocy, she had needed to stagger past the railing to where she could properly land in the water. She dearly hoped the actor had internalized her instructions to run for his life afterward because if Ruben did trouble himself to try and catch her killer, it wouldn’t end pleasantly for the sorry actor. She highly doubted Ruben would exert the effort, but it would be just her luck for his loyalties to surface at the most inconvenient time.

  When she heard the short blip of the ship’s horn signaling its departure, she knew it was almost safe to surface again. Ruben would be on that ship, regardless of whether or not he had avenged her death. He would go back to Le Havre and report her death to the Hand of Charlemagne. They would give him the authorization to continue the mission without her, possibly assign him a new partner, and he would head to Paris.

  She had made sure he would go to Paris instead of staying in the British Isles. The entry she had added to the Cairdygyn Hold Accounts would ensure that he would never be looking in the right place for the Damarek, and he would never see her again. The Viper was dead. That was the only way a person left the Hand. You either succeeded until you reached the age where you were no longer useful or you failed and were never heard from again. Elorie understood that despite the Viper’s renown, she hadn’t been performing up to standard lately. This failure wouldn’t be tolerated. She had no desire to return to her superiors, knowing all that waited for her was a heavy and swift silver blade. Elorie’s plans didn’t include
being beheaded in dramatic fashion just for France’s vain claims of religiosity.

  It had all been rather easy once she had figured out that Max had beaten her. She had found the box in the recesses of the hold after reading the entry that had led Max there. Raging about it would do nothing but expend energy she didn’t have to spare. Dying was strenuous, after all.

  After waiting another minute until the ship was surely out of sight range, Elorie discarded the pipe and broke the surface of the water. Keeping her head low, she pivoted to look around. The night was cloudy, but there was just enough moonlight to see the back end of the passenger ship in the distance.

  Good. No one would be able to see her now. Not having swum for quite some time, she chose a simple breaststroke motion and made for shore. Despite having shed her skirts and forgoing a corset, ladies’ garments were not made for swimming. Her lungs felt tight and her limbs couldn’t seem to gain enough range of motion. When she reached the point at which she could stand and walk out of the water, Elorie was exhausted. And cold. So cold her teeth chattered and her fingers couldn’t feel themselves as she wrung out her stiff hair.

  There was no time to waste, however. There weren’t many people about at this hour, but she couldn’t risk someone trying to come to her aid and report the incident. Even the best-laid plans could go wrong at a moment’s notice, but Elorie planned like a matron with three daughters to wed at a house-party full of bachelors.

  Which was why, when she had trudged across the rocky beach to where the wharf met the street, there was a hack with a bundle of blankets and a change of clothes waiting for her. Elorie nodded to the driver, who already knew where to take her. She had offered to pay handsomely for the extra service and precise following of her directives, all with the utmost discretion. It seemed that at least this man wasn’t going off-script.

  Once inside the private coach, she stripped off her wet clothes and spent a moment just wrapped naked in a blanket with a warming brick sending heavenly wafts of heat upward into her cocoon. She took another blanket and dried her hair with it. After a bit, her teeth ceased their knocking together and the shaking stopped. Once they were on the road outside of the little town, she balled up the soaked clothes and threw them out the door quickly. Someone would be delighted to find an expensive pair of women’s undergarments. She only hoped it was a woman. Ellie allowed herself to settle into the plush squabs and drift off to sleep. Now that the exciting part was over, exhaustion made for a comfortable bed inside the warm cab.

  She stood on the precipice of Cairdygyn Hold’s tower, the bitter wind blowing her hair back from her face as she gazed out at the churning gray sea. Max stood behind her. He held her steady in his arms and was whispering in her ear.

  “Just jump,” his silky, deep voice murmured. “You know you must.”

  Ellie looked down at the jagged rocks below with the ocean frothing between them. “I will if you jump with me,” she replied.

  He chuckled, his warm hands squeezing her arms. His breath caused the hairs on her nape to prickle. “Oh, Viper, earls don’t do that sort of thing. You should know by now there’s no way out for you.”

  Then he pushed her.

  Ellie woke with a gasp, the swaying of the carriage causing the sensation of falling to continue for a petrifying moment.

  She did know. She had known since she was fifteen years old that she was trapped in this life. Max had been just a glorious streak of starlight in a sky that was forever night.

  By the time the hack arrived in London nineteen hours later, Ellie was dressed in proper lady’s attire with her hair twisted atop her head as befitted a woman of means. It was time to play her next role, one she hadn’t had the pleasure of in quite some time. The world of British aristocracy awaited…

  Chapter Four

  “It’s where?” Max thundered. He sighed and fell back into the wooden rocking chair while rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  “E-England, sir,” the aging Irishman stuttered. “Me da’s brother’s branch of the family immigrated to Chesham area some time ago when the Catholics started to move into these parts. Didn’t like it too much, so he packed up the family and left to find tenant work down thereabouts.”

  “Of course he did,” Max commented, not trusting himself to speak further lest a string of curses spew forth in the presence of a monk.

  He’d finally found a record of a small contingent of soldiers with the 437th Regiment who had participated in the Burning of Edinburgh and had mentioned Cairdygyn Hold in the mission report. So far, Max had visited three homes without anyone remembering a Scottish artifact being brought back or passed down through the family.

  Of course, it was entirely possible the soldier who’d taken it had simply buried it in the ground somewhere just so the Catholics wouldn’t have it or someone wasn’t being truthful with him, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. The last soldier on his list was Kiernan MacDowell, and the family still lived only twenty kilometers from Belfast.

  Max had shoved Losif atop a horse and made for the MacDowell Farm as quickly as the monk could keep up while bouncing on his mount like a baby on his nanny’s knee. What he’d found out when he got there was both wonderful and maddening in the extreme. It seemed the Damarek might reside right in England, of all places.

  The old man continued. “I haven’t heard from him in many years, so I assumed he had passed on.”

  “But you’re certain of what he called the blade?” Max pressed. This was the exciting part.

  Caleb MacDowell’s wrinkled face scrunched as he frowned, the firelight from the nearby hearth illuminating every crease. “Yes, I’ll never forget it. Me da sat us all down one night and told us there was something he needed to explain. That our family was special because we all would enjoy long lives without sickness. All we needed to do was touch the spearhead, and our future would be secure. He called it the Centurion’s Lance, and it had come from his great-grandfather.”

  Max’s heart beat loudly in his ears. It had to be one and the same. “And your uncle took it with him when he immigrated?”

  “Yes. When there was talk of the family converting, me da gave it to his brother, James, for safekeeping. The only reason I know is because I was out playing in the back field and came upon them when he handed it over. I was only eleven at the time, so I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t believe it was significant. But I suppose if the English are after it, it must be after all, eh?” He smiled with rheumy blue eyes.

  Max smiled in return. “It might be. Thank you for speaking with me about it.” He rose and waited for the other man to rise slowly before shaking his hand. “Losif, time to go,” he called, and the monk looked up from the half-devoured butter biscuits that had been set before him by Caleb’s wife. The monk took one last longing look at them before he followed Max outside.

  Caleb came to the door as they mounted their horses. “I wish you luck in finding it, sir. I’m sure my cousin would love to show it to someone who appreciates its value.”

  Max highly doubted it, but he didn’t say so. He did have one last question, however, one he couldn’t resist asking. “Did it work? Did the spearhead spare you from sickness?”

  Caleb paused and tilted his head to the side. “None of us who touched it has ever been sick a day in our lives. My older sister just passed on in her sleep at the age of ninety-four.”

  Ninety-four. Max shook his head ruefully and kneed his horse into a trot, leaving the farm and its remarkably healthy residents behind.

  Losif kept up a steady stream of nonsense on the road back to Belfast. Fortunately, all Max had to do was “Mmm” and “Ah” in the right places to be alone with his own thoughts. The Irish countryside was a velvety emerald green interspersed with orderly farms and the occasional ancient oak splitting the skyline. Spring had barely begun to arrive, but hardy flowers were already poking their way through the stubbornly green grass nestled along the stone walls lining the road. Max had to admit that for all its
loveliness, England didn’t have quite the same air as Ireland, nor the same mystical quality about it. He wouldn’t mind living a simple life in a place such as this, although preferably not this far from his mother and sister.

  He wasn’t sure what feeling had been plaguing him of late, but he didn’t like it. He felt … itchy. And not the good kind. The good kind was when a mission became intriguing, and he felt an energy coursing through him that spurred him on with a kind of recklessness that resulted in high-stakes wins for the Crown.

  He should have been feeling it now. In fact, the distinctive adrenaline rush had surfaced for a brief moment in the MacDowell’s cottage a little while ago. However, it seemed to have disappeared just a few miles down the quiet road. Even picturing finding the Damarek held only a fraction of the appeal it had just a few days ago.

  Max shifted on his horse and realized he had no idea what Losif was talking about at the moment, the subject having changed from falconry to shipyard production methods, apparently. Who knew a Russian monk could have so much to say about things he’d never actually seen?

  If he was honest with himself, he knew why the idea of finding the Damarek was no longer the challenge it once was. Elorie Lavoie was no longer chasing it. To be fair, she might be, but he doubted she would catch up in time now. He wanted to find it only if she was there to see it too.

  The whole thing made no sense. He didn’t want France to have the Damarek any more than he wanted to be hung by his fingernails and dipped in a vat of boiling oil. Yet the fantasy of sparring with her, of seeing her face light up with the discovery of such a thing, seemed to be separate from his loyalty to his country.