Espionage and the Earl Read online

  He straightened on his horse and clenched his jaw. This was how operatives went soft. This was how missions were botched. He needed to focus on the objective rather than on some arrogant blonde chit who would just as soon put a poisonous dart in his neck as kiss him.

  In any case, it didn’t matter what he felt. The only thing that truly mattered was bringing the Damarek to Queen Victoria and then on to Tsar Nicholas, if necessary.

  Queenie would be happy to see him, especially if he carried the Damarek.

  Max had taken to calling her that irreverently by the end of his first meeting with her. The then-newly wedded sovereign had taken a liking to his offhand flirtatiousness, scolding him like a fresh-faced schoolboy, her lips pursed in a repressed smile nonetheless. Every time Max offered her a compliment or engaged in her sharp-witted banter, she threatened to tell “Albie,” who she said would have him carted off to Australia. Max knew she never meant a word of it, and he always liked when his missions meant seeing his sovereign.

  He didn’t often report directly to her, only when she specifically requested it or when the Home Office told him to. Usually, he communicated by remote debriefings and missives from the head of his division at the Home Office. When he’d been recruited seven years ago, he had met with the Director of Foreign Affairs at the Home Office. Max knew the Home Office liked to recruit from its own aristocracy. It made for easier access to high-profile targets and also saved the Crown a fair bit of money as gentlemen of leisure were able to fund their own travel and other necessities for their roles.

  “There’s the ocean!” Losif exclaimed loudly, interrupting his thoughts.

  Max turned his head in the direction of Losif’s thick index finger. Sure enough, their road had intersected with another that would take them along the shore back toward Belfast. Why the ocean was a sight warranting attention, he wasn’t certain. They had seen quite a bit of the ocean the past few days.

  The monk’s unadulterated joy at the sight of it, however, gave him pause. It was beautiful. The way the Irish farmland gave way to the bright blue beside it was like two worlds existing in a lover’s caress, separated only by the thin veil of pebbled beach preventing them from ever becoming one. As if his wayward thought had conjured its frustration, a wave broke white upon a jutting rock not far from shore, its impotent drops flashing before they fell back into itself.

  “Do you enjoy traveling so often, Lord Eydris?” Losif asked. “I imagine you see many sights of great beauty.”

  Max thought about it. “I once did,” he answered honestly, stroking his mount’s coarse hair. “Some time ago, the wonder began to matter less than the circumstances in which I found myself, and it became just a backdrop to everything I needed to do.”

  Losif nodded. “It must have cost you greatly to serve your country in such ways.”

  Max smiled wryly and said softly, “Yes.”

  With the wisdom of someone who had heard many a miserable man’s story, he asked, “Is there … anything you can do to regain such losses?”

  “I wish knew the answer to that question,” Max replied. He stood up in the stirrups and re-sat himself. “I have done things to people I care about. To people who didn’t deserve it.”

  “And can you make amends to these people?”

  Max swallowed. “I doubt it. I don’t think he— I don’t think he’d let me.”

  “Sometimes, it’s easier for us to think we can’t fix things than to try. But I’ve found that people are forgiving of even the most heinous acts if only the transgressor says the words.”

  “What words? A magic incantation?”

  Losif’s eyes crinkled at the edges. “I’m sorry.”

  Max’s throat tightened, and he squeezed the reins.

  “It takes more bravery to admit you have been wrong and need forgiveness than it takes to forgive someone,” Losif said, looking forward again. “And if I have come to know you at all these past several weeks, Maxwell, I know that you are not a coward.”

  Max took a deep breath, the air in his nostrils painful. “Thank you, Losif.” He rode a few more minutes in silence before, for some reason, he found himself saying, “My cousin—Asher, he and I used to be very close.”

  Losif looked over at him and nodded encouragingly.

  “And then he became … someone else.”

  “Someone you didn’t approve of?” Losif asked.

  Max frowned. “No, not exactly. Just different. He was obsessed with numbers and scientific pursuits. He excelled in school, and no matter how well I did, it couldn’t compare with him. My parents, they loved me, but … I was never as good as Asher at anything. Then when the Crown came calling, I thought—this is my chance to do something Asher can’t. A secret that somehow meant I was better than him.”

  “So your missions were to best your cousin?”

  Max laughed. “At first, absolutely. Then I came to find I was good at it after all. And the idiotic thing is, no matter how good I was at it, I could never tell anyone what I was doing or anything I had accomplished. So they all still think I’m simply a selfish and pampered Lordling without any contribution to the world but to try and steal others’ birthrights.” As he finished, he realized the bitter note in his voice and cleared his throat.

  Losif sighed. “My family thinks I became a monk because I am a half-wit,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Max blinked and jerked his head to look at his companion whose girth exceeded the width of the horse on which he resolutely rode. “Why would they think that?”

  “I wasn’t very good at the family profession. Perhaps they’re right.” He shrugged.

  Max’s brows rose. “Losif, you know more about crop rotations and English taxation laws than anyone in England itself. I assure you, you’re not a half-wit.”

  Losif’s cheeks became ruddier. “Well,” he blustered. “I like reading.”

  “Why did you become a monk?” Max had always wondered what drove people to such a life of austerity. For all his talk of needing to be the best in a world of life and death, he knew he wouldn’t be able to survive without many of the pleasures he took for granted.

  “Because I wanted to help people. And the Lord told me one day that this was the way I would do the most good.”

  “He told you? He spoke to you?” Max pressed.

  “Not in words, no. But that is not the only way He speaks. He speaks in the kindness of strangers and the small whisper of contentment when one finds one’s direction in the chaos of all else. Or”—he waved his hand across the expanse of the ocean—“in the wildness of the ocean that Man cannot explain nor control, yet calls to us in the deepest yearnings of our souls.”

  The salty air stung his eyes, and his brow rose in skepticism. “I suppose you think He somehow put me on this journey? Or that we’re both here for a reason?”

  Losif cocked his head and smiled that knowing smile that made Max feel as if he was missing something that was right in front of him. “Don’t you?”

  ****

  Max arrived home after settling Losif in at a local inn whose rooms were located above a bakery. The inn was also near a library that he was sure would keep Losif busy for the time being.

  He, on the other hand, didn’t get the chance to eat or do anything else before Camille rushed at him with the force of a tidal wave.

  “Max!” she squealed, sliding across the entry hall in her flimsy slippers and pale-green day dress. “You’re back! Mama, he’s back!” she yelled up the stairs as she slammed into him with a tight hug.

  Max awkwardly set down the paper-wrapped gift he’d been holding on the entry table next to him before squeezing her back.

  “I’ve missed you, little flower,” he said, kissing the top of her chestnut curls.

  She pulled back with a beaming smile, her amber eyes lit up like street lamps on a winter night.

  He grinned down at her and duffed his thumb across the birthmark spread over her upper cheekbone. It was almost a perfect hibiscus shape
about an inch across, with one petal missing a crescent shape out of the tip.

  Max knew she had been mortifyingly self-conscious about it when she was younger, but he had made it his mission to squash any such thoughts from her head by making damn sure she knew how beautiful she was, and that birthmark especially. It always pleased him to see how vivacious she was now after her years of painful shyness in girlhood.

  “I’m so glad you’re back! Did you bring me something from Scotland?” She looked excitedly at the table behind him and then back at his face. “I wanted to go so badly this time, but Mama said I can’t during my first Season out. It really isn’t fair.”

  He laughed. “There’s only one reason English girls run off to Scotland during the Season, and it’s not a good one. Besides, you wouldn’t have enjoyed it overly much. It was mostly meetings. I went fair mad with boredom, truth be told.” His stomach barely even twitched with the lie.

  “Perhaps to you, but I’ve never been anywhere!” Camille complained, her hair bouncing with indignation.

  “That’s a job for your future husband,” a firm voice from the direction of the staircase chimed. “You can go anywhere you’d like for your honeymoon, dear, but we need to get you married first.” Max’s mother, the Countess of Eydris, smiled serenely as she descended the staircase in measured, graceful steps. “Hello, Maxwell,” she said fondly, her eyes crinkled into crow’s feet at the corners of her narrow face. It was one of the only signs of aging on the Dowager Countess, her deep brown hair glinting with no less vibrancy than it had during her own first Season. She came toward him and held out her hands to his, lace frills at the end of the tight sleeves of her fashionable ochre dress almost covering her knuckles.

  The familiar scent of rice powder and lavender filled his nose as he took her hands and bent down to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Mother,” he intoned. “You look wonderful.”

  A hint of the alluring debutante Penelope Berisford had once been surfaced with a flutter of her lashes and a dimple Max knew had driven her late husband crazy for her. “Well, if you say so, I’m not going to argue. A widow must take her compliments where she can get them.”

  Max knew his mother could have been a very “merry” widow if she had chosen, but she had remained faithful to the memory of his father for two years, never once hesitating to turn down the advances of men who had wanted her companionship.

  Johnathan Carmichael Berisford, Max’s father, had died of a feverish sickness, which the doctors had said could have been brought on by drinking from one of the streams running through their estate. He had often done so while hunting on his land with his friends. How such water could kill a man when plenty of others had done the same thing for hundreds of years had always baffled Max. Perhaps his cousin Ash would have understood it, but he had struggled to accept that such a simple thing could have killed his robust and active father.

  He sometimes wondered if his long absences made things more difficult for his mother, especially raising Camille on her own. He hoped his family wouldn’t have to endure his neglect for much longer, if this mission turned out as he hoped.

  He had sent inquiries ahead to a contact of his near Chesham to see if James McDowell or his family still lived there. There was no point in rushing out of town again if nothing awaited him there, especially if France wasn’t on the trail any longer. Once he knew where the family was, he would pay them a visit immediately.

  For now, his own family was where he needed to be.

  “All right, all right, we’ve seen you. Now, where is my gift?” Camille pressed, standing on her tiptoes to reach around him for the package on the table.

  Or perhaps not.

  “The priorities of this family…” Max lamented, blocking her while swiping the package from the table and holding it behind his back.

  “You can’t expect me to wait all day!” Camille burst, trying unsuccessfully to get past Max’s quick maneuverings and solid build.

  “Mother, what have you been feeding her?” Max teased. “She’s grown muscles like an ox!”

  “Mama, make him stop,” Camille said with a growl, huffing as Max deftly set her back with one arm as she struggled.

  “Both of you are acting like little heathens, and you’re going to break something with your fussing,” his mother said archly but made no move to stop them. Max knew she didn’t mind him teasing Camille. They both enjoyed it, and there was precious little she could do to stop him since he’d surpassed her in height and strength a long time ago.

  “I’ll give you your present, heathen, if you let me take you both out tomorrow for a ride. How about that?”

  Camille crossed her arms “Fine,” she agreed, nose in the air, her smile ruining the haughty pose.

  Max brought the package out from behind him and bowed a little as he presented it to her. “My lady.”

  “Why thank you, Good Sir.” She dipped a quick curtsy and then snatched it from his hands.

  Before his eyes, she ripped the brown paper to shreds while their mother looked on. She finally opened a small box in which sat a pair of emerald-encrusted hair combs set in the shape of flowers that precisely matched her pale birthmark.

  “Oh, Max, I love them!” she breathed.

  “Thought you would,” he said, flicking his thumb across her flowered cheek again. “They’re all the way from the Emerald Isle itself. Had to make a stop in Ireland.” He gave the other package he’d come in with to his mother, who took it with a nod and a smile. She would find a sapphire necklace inside.

  “They will match the dress I’m going to wear to the ball tonight!” she exclaimed, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek.

  He bent so she could reach. “And I would be honored to escort you both to the event.”

  He looked around the entry hall of the familiar London residence that had been the home of the Earls of Eydris for three generations now. Yes, it was good to be home. It was good to be with people he cared about. People who missed him.

  And then, unbidden, Elorie Lavoie’s heart-shaped face rose in his mind.

  Was she missing him? Did she ever think of him when a bright yellow color flashed by or when something witty floated through her mind and made her want to share it with him?

  Max blinked. Of course not. Spies did not think such things, after all.

  Chapter Five

  The yellow of the custard in the bakery window was the exact same as the barouche she had left for Max in Edinburgh.

  Elorie grinned wide, her cheeks heating briefly. Then her facial muscles fell, and she looked round to make sure no one had seen. Clearing her throat, she took off briskly down Bond Street again, chiding herself for the careless moment. Someone in her position couldn’t afford to be thinking of some arrogant English lord’s kiss—no matter how much it made her stomach swoop in dizzying loops at the thought of it.

  She was on a mission today. She had to purchase enough clothes for a London Season, which, apparently, was quite a lot. She had been to the modiste, the milliner, and the jeweler so far. Now all she had left was the cobbler for some acceptable dancing slippers for tonight.

  Dancing slippers.

  Elorie hadn’t worn those in… She thought about it as she passed various shops and the bustle of people crowding the sidewalk. A year, at least. Not since an assignment in Spain during which she had been required to play the part of a local merchant’s social-climbing wife at a few functions of the State.

  Ducking into a smaller shop specializing in women’s shoes, Elorie blinked at the change from the bright light outside. She took off her feather-tipped hat and looked around. There were four other women in the shop, one on the arm of a man of average build who was being helped by the shopkeeper, and two others were standing over a third companion who was trying on a pair of riding boots.

  One of the trio, a tall woman with black hair and unusually-colored eyes looked up and smiled at her before focusing back on her friend, who had let out a yelp as she sat on the cushioned sto
ol.

  The small woman with apricot hair cursed, surprising Elorie. “This is it. This is how it ends. My foot is cramping. I think I’m dying.”

  “Oh, shut it. You’re trying on a shoe that’s two sizes too big, and your foot can’t stretch to fit it. That’s not how that works, and you’ll get cramps,” the taller woman replied, crossing her arms.

  “This is the smallest size before the children’s sizes!” Apricot complained, massaging her right foot with a grimace.

  “So get children’s shoes if they fit. They aren’t children’s shoes if you have them custom made anyway,” the other woman in the group, a brunette of even smaller stature than the other two, chimed in.

  The seated woman pointed at the brunette. “You’re not allowed to have an opinion on riding boots. Your idea of an outside activity is taking a book outside to read.”

  The brunette seemed to think about it and then shrugged, likely acknowledging the truth.

  Elorie snickered and then gulped as she realized they had heard. All of their faces were turned toward her. She cleared her throat. “So sorry. I didn’t mean… That is, pay me no mind.”

  “Don’t apologize,” the raven-haired woman contradicted her. “We never do.”

  “True,” Apricot agreed. “And who are you? I don’t recognize you.”

  This was the perfect moment to establish the identity she would need, so she came forward and answered in a perfect British accent, “Lady Crescenfort, if it pleases. My parents have kept me out of Society for health reasons until now. And who might you all be?”

  “I’m Lady Blackbourne,” the tiny brunette answered, her pale face broken in a wide smile. “But I prefer Ivy.”

  “And I’m Miss Delilah Hayworth,” the tall one added.

  The strawberry-blonde tossing off the offending shoes humphed. “I’m Lady Scythemore, but call me Raquel.”

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance.” Elorie returned their open expressions and sincere smiles. Being adept at mirroring expressions was a skill she’d developed long ago. Manipulation through emotional connections had been deeply ingrained and was now second nature. However, she genuinely liked these women from what she’d seen so far. Either way, she would most likely require allies among the English peerage, so it was with no hesitation that she decided to befriend them. She even recognized some of the surnames they had thrown out, vaguely remembering her training from Debrett’s years prior.