A Lady's Secret Weapon (20 page)

“You don’t have to befriend him. Simply get what information you can and bid him
adieu
. The more we can learn about Townsend, the better we’ll understand LaRouche’s position.”

“If it were for anyone but you…” He allowed the thought to trail off.

His gruff sentiment made her smile. Mick could be serious when he needed to be, but most of the time, he swept through life with a wink and a grin. So, his reaction to working with Cameron Adair surprised her a little.

To Amelia and Mac, she said, “Focus your efforts on LaRouche. Who are his people? Why is he here? How long has he been in the country?”

They both nodded.

“It’s time to enlist Specter’s help, I think.” Sydney’s announcement produced three pairs of intent and expectant eyes. She understood their reaction. Her own anticipation shot through her like small, fiery arrows.

She peered at the clock—not quite noon. Specter never emerged before dark.

Ethan backed into the shadow of the town house, allowing the darkness to shield him from too curious eyes. Then he waited. And waited. He waited for nearly two hours before the first boy climbed up from Abbingale’s lower-level servant’s entrance, or the
area
, as many were wont to call it.

He squinted into the gloom, scanning the boy’s scrawny body for signs of a package. Nothing. The same as before. Though, to be certain, he would have to search the child.

Once the boy reached street level, he became a blur of movement. Even though Ethan’s mind urged him to race after the boy, his instincts cautioned him to proceed with care. He held back a full five seconds before stepping into the betraying lamplight.

Rather than donning one of his many disguises, Ethan chose an uninterrupted black ensemble, from his well-worn Hessians to his borrowed wide-brimmed hat to his whiskered face. As he jogged down the pavement, he wondered which boy he tracked. Jacob? Noah? Arthur? Giles Clarke? Based on his quarry’s size, Ethan narrowed it down to one of the younger residents of Abbingale.

A full street ahead of him, the boy darted to the right, moving out of Ethan’s line of sight. He increased his speed, no longer caring about the attention he drew. If questioned, the few individuals loitering the neighborhood would only recall a tall man dressed in black. A chap in a great hurry.

Several minutes later, the boy skirted across the next intersection and then barreled down a side street. Ethan followed, exertion burning low in his chest. It had been a long while since he’d given chase.

Minutes later, he became aware of the slow degradation of his surroundings. Tidy shops and corniced town houses gave way to ramshackle buildings. Clean paved streets turned into filth-strewn dirt roads. Pavements peppered with modestly dressed shopkeepers were reduced to bedraggled men and half-clad women. And London’s normally odiferous air was clogged with a stench beyond anything Ethan had ever inhaled.

All this eased its way into his consciousness, and he slowed his pace in order to take better stock of his situation. Unlike the previous street, this one was teeming with people. Many sent him wary glances, others stared at him with territorial anger, and the rest paid him no mind, for they were otherwise
engaged
.

Focusing his attention ahead again, Ethan found the boy winding his way through the unsavory crowd as if he were dodging pesky vendors at market. A little before the next intersection, the boy veered toward one of the buildings on his left.

Lungs straining against the fetid air, Ethan slowed once again. The multistory stone structure sat alone, stark and gray-white, on a small parcel of land. Not a tree or shrub occupied a square inch of space. The moonlight seemed to favor the building, though. The ghostly facade pulsed with a strange glowing light.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he hunched his shoulders and continued past. Beneath the cover of his wide brim, he searched the area for a surveillance location he could use until the boy emerged again. A spot large enough to conceal his big frame and close enough to view the comings and goings of the glowing building.

He crossed to the other side of the hard-packed road, ignoring high-pitched feminine calls and an unnerving masculine whistle. Up ahead, he noticed about six feet of empty space separating two crumbling buildings. Having never been to this part of the city before, Ethan had no way of knowing what lurked beyond the darkness.

But his options were few. Actually, he had none. Too many people populated the area. Even the space between the buildings was questionable due to a group of older boys loitering on the steps of one of the structures.

Seeing no other alternative, Ethan tugged his hat lower and strolled toward the ruffians with slow menace. Their conversation halted at his approach. “Lads.” He infused a smattering of East End into his voice.

“What you want?” the largest of the four young men asked.

“To get rid of you.”

Three pairs of wary eyes glanced between Ethan and the gang’s leader.

“This is our area,” the leader said. “My brother won’t like you causing us trouble.”

“Your brother?”

“Jonas White. He owns this street.”

“Owns it, does he? I suppose I could give Jonas my blunt.”

“You didn’t say nothing about any blunt.”

“What will it take for the four of you to give up your perch for an hour?”

“Ten bob,” the leader said without hesitation.

A small fortune for some. Ethan reassessed his opponent. The moment the young man mentioned his older brother, Ethan had assumed he was dealing with someone who rode on the coattails of his more dangerous brother. But the youngest White would be an enterprising—and lethal—member of this community in a few short years.

“I would be a fool to carry so much on me.” Ethan lowered his voice. “You know I’m no fool, right?”

It was difficult to tell in the dark, but Ethan thought the young man paled. “Two bob. Take it or leave it.” He lifted his chin.

Still a good deal of money, but he didn’t have time to negotiate. “Half now.” He bent to rub out a nonexistent smudge on his boot and deposited the coins on the step, then straightened. “Half later.”

The leader began to protest. “Now wait a minute—”

“You’ve already made more in five minutes than you would in a year,” Ethan said. “I’ll add a sixpence to the second half if you’re out of my sight in the next ten seconds.”

The other three scrabbled up. “That’s a half crown, Marty.”

“I know what it is.” Seeing he was outnumbered, the leader scooped up the coins and stood. “One hour, mister.”

Once the quartet reached the pavement, they took off. Ethan followed their retreat, wondering if the leader would share the spoils with his comrades or not. Feeling the weight of time ticking by, Ethan glanced at the building where the Abbingale boy had disappeared. An unnatural stillness met his regard.

With measured steps, he inched his way toward the cavernous space separating the two buildings. Fragments of glass, stone, and only God knew what else cluttered his path, forcing him to alter his even gait. Soon enough, he reached the yawning chasm and peered around the edge. His eyes had adjusted somewhat to the lack of light, but no amount of squinting could penetrate the complete and utter darkness staring back at him.

Cocking his head, he listened for signs of disturbance from within. Nothing. Not even the scurry of tiny feet, though it was difficult to hear anything around the drum of his heart. He slid his fingers inside the left sleeve of his coat and drew a long, slender blade from the sheath attached to his forearm.

He inhaled a calming breath and then another one for good measure, all the while mentally bracing himself for a swift and violent impact. Exhaling, he crossed from one plane to the next. Once the shadows engulfed him, his heart dropped—right over the edge.

He wasn’t alone.

Later, he would ponder what might have prompted his sure knowledge that something or someone occupied the space with him. Now, however, his mind was engaged in more lethal musings.

“Who’s there?” Ethan pressed closer to the building, hoping his black garb would shield his exact location from the intruder. Given the level of darkness, he didn’t think it would be a problem. As long as he stayed still. The moment he moved, a keen eye might discern the subtle shift of shadow within shadow.

Time suspended around absolute silence. Then something shuffled in the distance. Ethan’s grip tightened around his weapon a second before the whisper of fabric reached his ears. Close. Too close. He crouched low and sliced his blade through the air, striking his target.

Air hissed between the intruder’s teeth.

“Dammit,” another roared, right before his fist connected with the underside of Ethan’s jaw.

The power behind his assailant’s blow catapulted Ethan onto his back, onto something sharp and hard. He clambered to his feet. Thankfully, he hadn’t released his blade during his fall.

“Easy, my lord,” a voice rasped. “You have no enemies here.”

Surprise rippled through his pain-filled mind. “Who are you?” He sidestepped several paces until he blended into the building’s brick wall again.

Cloth ripped. “It matters not. We were both unfortunate enough to happen upon the same hiding place.”

A vague memory bumped against the barrier of his awareness. He tried to break through the membrane from the other side, to no avail. “How many are with you?” He sensed at least one other presence.

Another hiss of fractured air. “Enough to overtake you, if necessary.”

“Perhaps not, if you’re injured.” He moved deeper into what must be some type of alleyway. Why could he not see dim light at the other end? If he could get behind the raspy-voiced stranger, he might be able to make out a silhouette or two or three.

“Danforth, I suggest you stop.”

He had thought little of the intruder’s use of “my lord,” for Ethan had not attempted to mask his voice. Most individuals could be pinpointed to the region of England they’re from by accent alone. Same goes for portions of the city and for one’s access to wealth. But his alleyway companion knew him, which put Ethan at a disadvantage. A position he detested.

“We are acquainted?” he asked.

“I have a casual business arrangement with the cryptographer.”

Helsford
. Again, a memory pressed against his awareness like the point of a knife tenting a supple square of leather. If only he could see the stranger’s face. Perhaps then, his memory might finally pierce the barrier.

“What sort of business arrangement?”

“The private kind.”

Ethan’s jaw clenched. “The two of you speak of me?”

“Only when the occasion warrants it. What brings you to the shadows, my lord?”

The stranger’s question held only mild curiosity, a sign that his companion either did not care or did not need an answer. If the latter, the stranger must have been following him and already knew his reason for being here. Heat rose up the back of his neck and curled around the tips of his ears. His voice hardened. “I suspect you know why. Shall we dispense with the fencing match, or would you prefer to dance around all evening?”

A harsh sound, followed by more shuffling, echoed off the stone walls.

“Perhaps we can finish our round another time.” The stranger’s voice carried the same unruffled tone, but weaker somehow.

“You may count on it. Shall I exit first?” There was no sense in staying to watch the building across the way. No telling what had occurred in the last ten minutes. For all he knew, the boy was long gone.

“By all means, my lord.”

Ethan used the same care leaving his hiding spot as he had entering it. He paused briefly to toss some coins on the step before backtracking his way to familiar territory. For a moment, he considered concealment again but discarded the notion almost instantly. Something told him that his alleyway companions wouldn’t be so careless, or so bold, as to emerge from the gloom-filled cavern after him. And by the time Ethan found their hidden exit, they would be long gone.

Rather than waste any more of his time here, he tucked tail and made his way back to Abbingale to await the emergence of another child. Tomorrow, he would track down Helsford and find out who the hell was in that alley with him tonight—right after he pummeled the new chief for discussing Nexus business outside the Alien Office.

Sweat dripped in Sydney’s eye, the salty liquid burning with a vengeance. But she dared not move. Not yet.

Across the alleyway where Ethan had skulked, Mac moved with lethal grace to the opening, his pistol at the ready. He peered around the corner. “He’s gone.” Releasing the hammer on his pistol, he stowed it away before reaching her side.

Only then did she allow her harsh breaths to shudder free. Unable to help herself, she leaned into Mick a little more. Thank God for the darkness. It had always been her friend. Tonight more so than any other. Not only had the gloom-filled alleyway protected her secret from Ethan, it had also shielded her from the sight of her own blood.

“How bad is it?” Mac asked.

“It’s hard to tell in this damn cave,” his brother answered. “A slash to the thigh. Her cloak might have protected the main artery, but I’m not sure. There’s a lot of blood.”

“Don’t talk about the blood,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Sorry, Syd.”

“Dammit, Sydney, what were you thinking?” Mac demanded.

“The same as you.” Sweat coated her body now and her face felt as if all the warmth had drained away. “M-mick did a good job of bandaging the wound.”

“Grab her other side.” Mick’s voice sounded miles away. “We’re losing her.”

Sydney’s eyes fluttered once, then she was gone.

***

Someone with a gentle touch placed a cool wet cloth on Sydney’s throbbing forehead. Relief was instant. “Mmm,” she hummed. “Thank you, Amelia.”

“You’re welcome, even though I’m not Amelia.”

Sydney’s eyes didn’t exactly fly open, for they were heavy with sleep, but she blinked them wide several times until Ethan came into view. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was crusty with disuse.

“Watching over you.”

She took in her surroundings, recognizing the rich blue bed hangings, her mahogany writing box, and her small stack of travel guides. “I don’t understand. Where are Amelia and Mac?”

“Amelia is sleeping and Mac is waiting unhappily in the corridor.”

Lifting her head, she located Mac standing outside her bedchamber, with his arms crossed, watching them. He nodded but made no move to enter.

She melted back into the sheets. “What is going on? Why do I feel so leaden?”

“Blood loss from a knife wound.”

A blast of memories flooded her vision. Following a boy from Abbingale. Hiding in an alleyway. Hearing Ethan bribing a group of ruffians. Holding her breath when he slid into the darkness with them. Scorching pain in her thigh. Fear of Mac shooting Ethan. The blood. Then nothing.

“Had you not been wearing such a voluminous cloak,” he said in a low, gravelly voice, “I would have caused you a great deal more damage.”

Panic shot through her veins. Had he pieced it together? Did he now know she had been both the maid and the cloaked figure at the dockside warehouse? Her gaze sought Mac’s comforting presence, but Ethan’s broad chest blocked her view. When she tried to scoot into a sitting position, pain lanced down her leg, stealing her breath.

“Easy,” he said in a softer tone. “We’ll discuss the alleyway incident later. For now, you must allow your body more rest.”

“May I have some water?”

He moved to cradle her shoulders and head and then tipped a glass to her lips. “Slowly.”

The cool liquid flowed into her parched mouth like the fresh burst of a spring breeze over a frozen meadow. She drank greedily until he eased the glass away. The effort left her panting with exhaustion.

He continued holding her, gently kneading her shoulders, running his hand over her hair, caressing her cheek, her neck, her arm. Sydney closed her eyes. It felt so good to be harbored within the cradle of his arms. But she couldn’t be at ease.

“How long have I been in this state?” she asked.

His amazing fingers paused. “We crossed swords, so to speak, last night. It’s now approaching breakfast.”

“I feel as if I’ve slept the month away.”

“Your assistant spent the better part of the night by your side. She only left an hour ago, after O’Donnell insisted.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.” The words slipped out unbidden, and her gaze shot to Mac’s. His face turned thunderous.

“Perhaps you might try for a little less excitement,” Ethan said, missing the foregone nuance of her statement. “For her sake, if not for yours.”

“Thank you.” She gathered her strength and sat forward. “I believe I can manage on my own now.” What she wouldn’t do for a hairbrush and bathwater.

He rose from the bed and moved to the end, propping his shoulder against the bedpost.

The burning sensation in her thigh urged her to lie back, but she refused. Instead, she began to comb her fingers through her hair, while he rudely stared. She tolerated his behavior for all of three deep breaths before rolling her gaze up to his. “As you can see, I will survive. Please don’t feel as though you need to stay.”

“You don’t think I will let you go that easily. Not after I’ve finally found you… both.”

Sydney closed her eyes. So he knew. Not that she’d thought any differently, though a morsel of hope had stubbornly attached itself to her heart. All her careful planning and manipulation were for naught. If he hadn’t already, he would soon learn the rest and then everything would change.

“Mind telling me how all this”—she twirled her finger around the room—“came about?”

“How I came to uncover your third identity, you mean?”

She set her jaw and narrowed her eyes, refusing to confirm the obvious.

He jerked his head toward Mac. “Perhaps your shadow can find something better to do than watch us talk.”

Sydney hesitated. Having Mac or Mick nearby when she was with a man had become second nature. She rarely registered their presence, because she knew they would always be there should she need them. But another part of her did not want Mac—her dearest friend—to witness what she was about to do.

“Mac.” The large Irishman unwound his arms and strode forward. “Please escort Lord Danforth to my sitting room and then go get some rest.”

Mac glanced between her and the viscount, his brows coiled in concern. “I’ll get Mick to take my place.”

“His lordship and I have some things to discuss.” She paused meaningfully. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not so sure,” Mac said. “You didn’t see how angry he was last night when he followed us home.”

Ethan pushed away from the bedpost. “My anger was directed at you for putting her in danger.”

“Then your anger was misplaced, my lord,” she said. “I do not answer to Mac or to any man.” She peered at her friend. “Mac, please.”

His lips firmed, pulling against his teeth until they lost color. Then he bent and whispered in her ear, “I’ll be at the end of the corridor. Take the bell. It’s on your bedside table.”

He pivoted and took two long strides, placing his face mere inches from Ethan’s. “One raised voice,” Mac said. “That’s all it will take for me to rip you apart.”

“You think so?” Ethan brushed an invisible speck off the shoulder of Mac’s coat. “I assure you, I am not so easily dismembered.”

Mac knocked the viscount’s hand away. “Follow me.”

“Ten minutes?” Ethan asked her, though his query was more of a command.

“Of course.”

When the door closed, Sydney flipped back the covers to assess the damage to her leg. A large bandage wrapped around the middle of her thigh. Gingerly, she probed the outer edge of the linen, working her way toward the center until the pain became too much. She smoothed her fingers over a small three-inch ridge, guessing Ethan’s blade had cut deep enough to require a few stitches.

She blew out a disgusted breath. This mishap would sorely limit her movements for a couple days and further delay her investigation of Abbingale Home. Now was not the time to dwell on her newest complication, though. First, she must prepare herself for the onslaught of questions and confessions she would soon face.

Easing her legs over the edge of the bed, Sydney hesitated. When she didn’t break out into a sweat and the bedchamber didn’t swim before her eyes, she pushed on, gaining her feet. She took her first tentative step and felt the skin around her stitches pull tight. She tested them a few more times and everything seemed to stay in place. On her way to the basin, she gave the bellpull two hard yanks. She would definitely need some help getting dressed today.

A quarter hour later, she limped into the sitting room, not caring a whit that she was late. The mother-of-pearl–handled cane her maid found thumped against the wooden planks. Rather than go through the torture of a corset and dress, she settled for a quick rinse and brush, clean chemise, and long wrap.

Ethan rushed to her side the moment he saw her. “Put your arms around my neck.” He crouched down a little.

“Excuse me?”

He hooked one arm under her knees and the other around her back.

“Ethan, no!” Good God, she was too large to tote around like a babe.

Her protest went unheeded, and he lifted her against his chest. Sydney’s arms clung to his neck. “Ethan, this is unnecessary. The cane was working fine.” She would never admit to him that she found it difficult to balance her weight on such a narrow object.

“You should enjoy this rare glimpse of my gallantry.”

Sydney studied his profile, noting the sharp edge of his cheekbone and the hard cast to his eyes. Anger seethed beneath every handsome angle, though she would never have known from the gentle care he employed while settling her into a cushioned chair. He even fluffed a pillow before wedging it behind her. She frowned, wondering at his solicitude when he was so furious with her.

“Thank you.” She steadied her cane against the chair and straightened her clothes.

He began pacing. Every few seconds, he would halt and shoot his fiery gaze at her. This went on for nearly a minute. Long enough to tie Sydney’s nerves into a hard knot.

Finally, he snapped. “Do you know how close I came to killing you?”

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Do you?” He advanced toward her.

“Ethan, I—”

He braced his hands on the chair’s arms, caging her. “Another inch or two and I could have hit the artery. You would have died in that goddamned alleyway and I would never have known.”

Remorse gnawed at her throat. His eyes burned with something far worse than anger. What she saw in those blue-green depths had nothing to do with her hiding the cloaked specter from him. No, what she saw raging in his eyes was fear.

She laid her hand on his forearm, felt the bone-deep tremor. “But you didn’t. The wound will heal in a matter of days.”

His chest rose and then he released a long breath. “I am not fond of you, at the moment.”

“I know.” His peevish tone made her want to smile. “This is probably not a good time to bring up the fact that I was in the alleyway first.”

“No, it is not.”

“Perhaps then, you might enlighten me on what happened after I blacked out.”

“Fainted.” He pushed away and plopped in a chair.

She snorted. “I have never done so in my life.”

“Well, now you have. According to Mick, all he did was mention blood a few times, and out you went.”

Sydney recalled the warm liquid seeping down her leg and the metallic scent that filled her nose and coated her tongue. A shudder rippled through her. “Let’s change the subject, shall we? Please tell me what happened.”

He smirked, though it did not last long. “When I left you, I had no intention of trying to locate the other entrance. I figured by the time I did, you would be long gone.”

“Something changed your mind, or a stroke of good luck?”

“I suppose you could say both.” His gaze dropped to her leg. “Instinct prevailed over logic, and your injury curbed my hasty retreat.”

“So, you caught us leaving, recognized the twins, and followed us home?”

“Not at first,” he said. “You and Mac were already in the carriage, and Mick’s ragged clothing and hat concealed his features.”

“Then you followed.”

He nodded. “Imagine my surprise when the carriage I was tracking rocked to a halt outside your agency?”

Somehow she could picture the moment with perfect clarity. Probably because she’d had nightmares about him discovering her secret identity for days.

“Still, I had not yet put the one with the other.” He rubbed the pad of his forefinger over his bottom lip, back and forth. Back and forth. “The lock of unruly hair was a perfect bit of misdirection, Sydney.”

She had never heard her name spoken in such admirable tones. Not even from her parents. And yet, admiration wasn’t the only emotion she heard tucked between the syllables. Her chest muscles squeezed tighter. “I suspect you are giving me credit for something I am not capable of masterminding, Ethan.”

“There now,” he said. “We are fast friends. It does not normally take me a sennight to persuade a beautiful woman to emphasize my name in such a fetching way.”

“I suspect your women are too busy moaning their husband’s secrets in your ear to say your name at all.”

The roguish grin he had been casting her way dimmed, and something stormy took its place. “What do you know of it?”

“Enough.”

His handsome face darkened. Instead of defending his actions, he went on the offensive. “Why did you hide the truth?”

“For the same reason you concealed your motives for seducing women,” she hedged. “To protect.”

“What truth are you talking about?”

She had gone too far. He only wanted to know why she had avoided his detection when all he wanted to do was thank her. But her mind had been on an even greater deception—the reasons behind her wearing the cloak.

“You do not trust me, I see. No matter—in time, you will.” Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on his knees. “Let us continue down your previous train of thought. Why would I need to coax information from women?”

“To protect England, of course.”

He canted his head to the side, more alert than ever. “What are you protecting?”

“Its people.”

“From whom or what?”

“Men like you.”

He exploded out of his seat. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”