“I meant for her to continue her safe, sedate work decoding documents for the Agency. Before that, I meant for her to marry my protégé Reginald and induce him into an early retirement from the field,” the Viscount said gruffly, not meeting the younger man’s eyes. “I also meant to have a grandchild or two to dandle on my knee by this time. Instead I have a daughter who rarely smiles, who wears black all the time and looks terrible in it and who wants to turn her work into some sort of clandestine suttee. If I could forbid her to work for the Agency, or even persuade her to give up this profession and look for a new husband in earnest, to build a happier life for herself, I would. As I can’t, I will do my best to further her interests in the path she has chosen.”
He smiled a resigned sort of smile, and Dexter saw the clean, aristocratic lines of his profile pulled into prominence for a moment. “I can’t keep her safe. She’s a grown woman, and I can hardly tell her not to do what I’ve admittedly done dozens of times. Not the marriage part, of course, I’ve only done that once, but the mission itself. This work is addictive, I warn you. Few escape it once they’ve begun.”
“I’ll take my chances on that, I suppose.”
“The primary mission is Charlotte’s, fetching this blueprint or whatsis that our man in Le Havre thinks may still be secreted somewhere in Paris. He’d like to rule it out, at least. I think it’s a fool’s errand and there’s no chance the damn thing is still there after so many years. But we also need your expertise, Hardison. Badly. I think I can guarantee that once you learn what your part of the project is about—assuming you agree to the terms the Agency sets, of course—you will be so eager to work on it that the rest will fade into insignificance. It’s the type of thing a man like you would never be able to resist. One day, it could make you very, very famous indeed.”
“That part doesn’t interest me,” Dexter rushed to assure him.
“It is true nevertheless. The project is its own inducement, and if Murcheson is wrong and the French do have those documents, success only becomes more critical. There are other ways you could help too, unique tasks you could undertake that I think you would enjoy immensely once you set your hands to them. You won’t get such an opportunity sitting at home. Charlotte is . . . a condition of the arrangement. You would be the perfect cover for one another. And as far as I’m concerned, that means her best chance of survival is with you.”
Three
UPPER NEW YORK DOMINION
EASY ENOUGH TO listen to a man discuss a proposed undertaking. It was an abstraction, a fancy, being asked to provide assistance to the Crown in its clandestine efforts to conduct espionage on the French despite the recent peace treaty between the two nations. The offer of Darmont’s daughter’s hand in marriage—however temporary—only lent an additional air of surrealism to the Viscount’s words.
It was another thing entirely to stand in a beautifully appointed solarium in the Upper New York Dominion, awaiting the arrival of a woman to whom he might become a sham spouse for a few months or even longer. Not to mention the woman who had fascinated him on paper for years.
The house itself had surprised him already. He was expecting something as solid, staid, respectable as his own stately residence. A manor house in the traditional style, or perhaps even a small Italianate palace. Not this frosted layer cake of a folly, with so many details on its façade he wasn’t sure which to smirk at first. The interior was at least more subdued, if still somewhat more frivolous than expected. The solarium itself, with glass walls and ceiling panels bordered in intricate wrought-iron scrollwork frames, was the view from the inside of the wedding cake.
“Mister Hardison.”
Lady Moncrieffe didn’t match her house.
Not her voice, which was surprisingly low and sweet. Nor her severe, high-necked black jacket and jabot, or the tailored fawn breeches and high boots that suggested she’d recently come in from a ride.
And not her face, which was anything but a folly. She was quietly beautiful despite the unflattering black; the stark color served only to heighten the impact of her fair skin and hair. Skin like a white peach, Dexter noted with an instant, inappropriate desire to touch her cheek and see if it was as soft as it looked. Hair like a sweep of pale gold silk. And eyes . . .
Eyes that were icy blue, and staring him down rather coldly as he tried not to gape like a fish at the wholly unexpected vision before him.
“Lady Moncrieffe.” He gave a short bow from the waist, to which she only nodded in return.
“And now, at least, we have established that we know one another’s names.”
He glanced back up, startled, to see a hint of humor flash behind her chilly mien. Only a moment, wry and sharp, gone before it could be pinned down. He thought he spied a dimple, but it vanished before he could be quite sure. Dexter had imagined that dimple, that spark of humor, so many times he felt a shock of recognition.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. I’ve enjoyed our correspondence these past few years. It should have occurred to me to make your acquaintance in person much sooner.” Dexter clamped his mouth shut before he could say anything more. He feared he might blurt something all too revealing about his reaction to the lady’s stunning looks, or that hint of something-or-other he could still feel from his head to his toes and points between. Particularly points between. He didn’t have to know her well to grasp that it would be a mistake to mention any of that at this point. He shouldn’t even be thinking any of that.
“I always look forward to your letters. And your marvelous creations, naturally. Would you care to sit down, Mr. Hardison?”
He took the seat she indicated, hoping the delicate gilded chair didn’t creak or simply give way under his weight. It held. Apparently, it was stronger than it looked. He tried to think of something to say, anything at all, but words failed him. Nothing in his life had prepared him for a scene in which he came to discuss an arranged marriage with a beautiful woman for the purpose of enabling them both to commit acts of international espionage.
“Your father visited me yesterday,” he finally began. “He seemed slightly less uncomfortable than I believe us both to be at the moment.”
She lifted an eyebrow at him as she sank gracefully into the chair opposite him. “He’s cagey, I know that much. He wouldn’t have wanted you to think him uncomfortable. Whether he was or not. He can’t have been elated.”
“I daresay not.”
“I’ve ordered us some tea. Unless you’d prefer something stronger?”
“Bit too early in the day for anything stronger for me, but I thank you. Tea will suffice.”
“What did he tell you? I don’t mean about the specifics of the mission, I’m sure he told you only enough about that to get your curiosity raging. What did he tell you about this part of the arrangement, Mr. Hardison? About me?”
A stray cloud crossed the sun’s path, filtering the light in the solarium down to a wintry gray. Without the sunbeams glancing around her head Lady Moncrieffe looked much more human, much less like an angel fallen to earth for the purpose of mourning. Her face, stripped of its poetic overlay for the moment, was all business. And her manner was very reminiscent of her father. On her, it was strikingly attractive. Dexter thought that on her, nearly anything would be strikingly attractive. Why hadn’t he ever tried to meet her in person before?
“I asked him what your particular motivations were, and he told me I would have to ask you. Said I should ask you about your late husband, if I may be so blunt.”