The Enigma of a Spy Page 4

  God, how he loved that word!

  “Now, about your next assignment ...”

  “I cannot leave London,” Adonis interrupted with a sudden shake of his head.

  The viscount straightened in his chair, rather stunned at his operative’s words. “Why ever not?”

  Adonis took a breath and let it out slowly. “I ... I made a promise, you see, and I cannot keep that promise if I’m not in London.”

  Lord Chamberlain stared at Adonis for several seconds before he frowned. “To whom did you make this ... promise?” he wondered.

  Dipping his head, Adonis took a moment before he finally replied. “Commander Barrymore.” He gave his head a quick shake. “Viscount Barrymore.” He shook his head again. “Jasper.”

  The viscount settled back into his chair and lifted his steepled fingers to his chin. “You were with him. When he died,” he said, not making the statement a question. He gave a quick glance at the drawing, realizing Adonis had been an eye witness to the carnage of that battle. Chamberlain’s gaze suggested he was deep in thought, but only for a moment. Jasper Barrymore had been the fourth in that group of operatives, but his message was far different than the one that had been carried by the other three. He had obviously managed to deliver his, even though it ultimately led to his death. Matthew wondered for a moment if the viscount knew he would lose his life at the crossroads near Ligny. The entire campaign had been a disaster until Waterloo.

  Adonis nodded. “And for several hours before that,” he agreed. “I’m afraid our small band of operatives didn’t exactly complete our assignment ...” Commander Barrymore—Viscount Barrymore when he wasn’t off leading an infantry unit on the Continent—should have survived and been escorted to a waiting ship on the coast.

  “Actually, Comber succeeded,” Chamberlain stated, realizing just then that Adonis had spent the past year thinking the mission had failed. “You did what you could, and it turned out to be enough. The world is rid of Napoleon, and the war is over. As for your next assignment ...”

  “I cannot leave London,” Adonis repeated, the words sounding as if he hadn’t already said them only a moment ago.

  “Then you’re the perfect candidate for this assignment, Sir Donald,” Chamberlain stated as he leaned forward.

  Adonis swallowed and regarded the viscount for a moment, rather stunned by the words. The Foreign Office assignments were almost always in another country, unless there was the rare operation that required agents from both the Home Office and the Foreign Office to work together. Those assignments generally involved infiltrating smuggling rings. “Very good, my lord,” he finally replied before settling in to hear the particulars of his new orders.

  Determined not to retreat into his head, Adonis listened intently and nodded his understanding as Matthew Fitzsimmons detailed the instructions for his next assignment. The edict to ferret out a possible traitor in their midst was perfectly reasonable, especially given Adonis hadn’t been in the country for very long and would be unexpected by the free-lance operative. The other order had him a bit surprised. He wondered the entire time if Jasper Barrymore had somehow sent word back to Lord Chamberlain about a certain person’s importance before his death on the battlefield. Then Adonis assured the viscount he would get started right away, and he took his leave of Whitehall.

  Adonis managed to make it back to his rooms in Green Street before the memories of his last night with Jasper Barrymore had him lost in thought. The memories that included the promise he had made.

  When he finally emerged from his reverie nearly an hour later, he thought it rather interesting that the promise he had made to his commander and fellow spy was now part of his next mission as a spy for the Foreign Office.

  How did Chamberlain find out?

  The question had him thinking hard, but only for a moment. He had a fellow operative to visit, and after that, a social engagement to attend.

  Chapter Seven

  Two Colleagues Renew an Acquaintance

  Later that morning

  Oliver Preston regarded his visitor with an arched eyebrow. If he was surprised at seeing Adonis Truscott, he didn’t show it, but then the man had always been known for his dour demeanor. He was also dangerous when he needed to be. In his line of work, it was a requirement.

  “Truscott. I wondered when you might pay a call,” Oliver remarked as he pushed his chair away from his desk. He stood up and made his way to where his visitor stood leaning on a cane, his right hand outstretched.

  “My apologies for not having done so when I first returned to London,” Adonis said as he shook his colleague’s hand. Former colleague, he amended to himself. Knowing what he did now, Adonis never would have voluntarily spent time in the man’s company. Although Oliver was a handsome man, gently bred women probably found him a bit too rugged looking for their tastes. A bit too Whitechapel. A bit too dark and dangerous.

  Adonis’ reason would have been far more important. Far more critical to King and country.

  “Heard you had a bit of trouble near Brussels,” Oliver said as he waved Adonis to a set of chairs in front of the study’s fireplace.

  Given the modest size of Oliver Preston’s bachelor quarters in Golden Square, Adonis was impressed by the size of the study. That is, until he remembered it was probably only one of two or three rooms. “A bit, yes,” Adonis replied. “Shame about Barrymore, though,” he added, watching Oliver to see how the man might react to hearing their mutual colleague’s name.

  “Tragic, is more like it,” Oliver replied as he took a seat in a deep upholstered chair. It’s worn fabric and the fact that the chair Adonis was about to sit in wasn’t a match suggested it was a cast-off—probably from the parlor of some poor widow Oliver had laid claim to. And laid. “I’ve made attempts to console his widow, of course, but now that I’ll be leg-shackled by this time next week ...” He allowed the sentence to trail off, apparently expecting well wishes from his visitor. “Got myself a debutante with a decent dowry. She’s not much to look at, but she’ll do,” he commented, as if he had found his future bride at the market whilst shopping for that night’s meat course.

  Adonis couldn’t help the flash of anger he felt at hearing Oliver’s comment about Jasper Barrymore’s widow. Lady Barrymore knew what her husband did for King and country. She knew because she had worked in the Foreign Office, her skills at solving puzzles and decoding missives better than most of the clerks who worked for Chamberlain. As for if she had any feelings for the man she had married—most assumed theirs was a marriage of convenience—Adonis didn’t yet know. He did know Jasper held her in high regard, his last words rather clear on the matter.

  His last words ...

  Adonis shook his head, realizing if he gave them too much consideration at that moment, he would later come to find Oliver waving a hand in front of his face and asking if he was mad.

  “Then, I suppose best wishes are called for,” Adonis remarked in genuine surprise. “I must say, I wouldn’t have expected you to be caught in the parson’s trap.”

  Oliver shrugged. “It’s time is all. But enough about me. Where have you been?”

  Adonis regarded his host and wondered what to admit as to his whereabouts for the last year. “I was in a hospital in Brussels until recently,” he replied with a shrug. “Nearly lost my leg—a horse stepped on it, you see, and one doctor wanted to saw it off. But a physician there insisted I be his test case. He was sure he could save it with some kind of special surgery. Who was I to argue?” he added with a shrug. He couldn’t have if he wanted to—he’d been in a coma at the time, a blessed period that provided relief from pain even though his nightmares were probably worse.

  Oliver grimaced and actually paled just a bit. “Jesus,” he murmured. “Can’t say I wished I were there.”

  His visitor arched an eyebrow. “Where were you?” he asked, feigning ignorance. Adonis knew Oliver was somewhere in the Netherlands.

  “My assignment had me in Antwerp. Nothi
ng exciting, mind you,” Oliver said with a shrug. “Just had to avoid some frogs intent on blowing up the Dutch countryside with their damned cannons. And then, when I could no longer avoid them, I had to join them on one of their excursions.” He rolled his eyes, although his manner was almost one of humor.

  Adonis had a hard time keeping a passive expression on his face. He knew something of those cannons. Something of what they were capable. He swallowed hard in attempt to keep his attention on the here and now. If he thought too much about that day north of Antwerp ...

  He jerked his head up when he realized Oliver was waving a hand in front of his face. Damn! I’ve gone and done it again.

  “Doesn’t exactly bring back good memories for me, either,” Oliver said. “Especially watching one of those windmills come tumbling down. Feats of engineering those are, although so many of them look as if they’re ready for retirement. Well, that one was certainly retired when the cannon ball hit it, I’ll tell you.”

  Adonis blinked. And blinked again. He forced himself to breathe. Forced himself to remain as calm as possible, for if he did not, Oliver Preston would end up with a cane impaling his throat. “I was at Ligny when this happened,” he said quietly, indicating his leg.

  Oliver suddenly shifted in his chair. “Oh? I heard that’s where Barrymore died. Bayonet or some such?”

  His visitor nodded. “I heard the same,” he agreed, deciding not to admit he was under the man’s command at the time. That he was so close, he saw what happened. That he ended up sitting next to the wounded commander for hours and hours. “Did you ... complete your assignment? Are you still ...?”

  “Working for Chamberlain?” Oliver finished for him. “Yes, but not very much these days, although since the war has been over, there really hasn’t been much work for those of us who are independents, so to speak. Hence, the need for a wife.”

  Allowing a look of feigned surprise, Adonis angled his head. “You don’t think you’ll ... miss it?”

  Oliver shook his head. “Nah. I just have one little assignment to complete, and then I can be off on my wedding trip. Thinking of a jaunt to the Continent.”

  Stiffening, Adonis wondered what “little assignment” the man could mean. Chamberlain had been quite clear with his order. Oliver Preston was finished as far as the Foreign Office was concerned, so whatever bit of espionage Oliver was involved in was for another party. Another employer.

  Another country.

  “I find myself with some time on my hands since I’m considered an old fogey now.” He lifted the cane as a reminder about his noticeable limp. “Anything I can help with?” he offered.

  His host gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Only if you knew Barrymore well enough to figure out where he might have kept a ring,” he replied and then quickly shook his head. “Forget I said anything ...”

  “If he was wearing it on the battlefield, it would have been knicked by one of the damned urchins who cleaned out all the dead bodies of their valuables,” Adonis interrupted. “They even tried to get my signet, and I was still alive, the little bastards,” he complained, holding up his right hand to display a square onyx embedded in a gold band.

  Oliver frowned, his brows furrowed so a fold of skin developed between them. “Damn,” he murmured, a look of worry suddenly crossing his face. He suddenly brightened. “Well, that may be the end of that assignment then,” he commented. “Have you the time for a drink? I have some scotch, although it’s not particularly good,” he said as he motioned toward a sideboard.

  “I thank you for the offer,” Adonis replied, “But I have a garden party to attend. Perhaps another time? When you’re a married man?” he teased with an arched eyebrow.

  Rolling his eyes again, Oliver gave a guffaw and straightened his waistcoat. “Perhaps when you’re a married man,” he countered with an arched brow. Then he laughed out loud when Adonis’ look of astonishment appeared, as if his fellow operative had never given a thought to becoming leg-shackled. “Now you know exactly how I really feel about the matter,” he whispered hoarsely.

  Oliver saw Adonis to the door of the study and shook his hand again. “I’m glad you made it, Truscott. You’re one of the good ones,” he remarked with a sigh.

  Adonis nodded and took his leave of Oliver Preston’s apartments, quite sure Lord Chamberlain was correct in his assessment of Oliver Preston. The man had been a double-agent. Was still an agent for another country. A traitor to King and country.

  And if he had been among those that destroyed a particular windmill north of Antwerp with a cannon ball, then he was a murderer as well.

  Chapter Eight

  A Garden Party Begets an Introduction

  Later that day

  A feeling of unease had Lydia pausing at the entrance to Carlington House. She knew she wasn’t arriving too early for the marchioness’ garden party, but the day’s weather, which had begun rather sunny and clear, was suddenly turning. The slight breeze evident when she left her townhouse and climbed into her town coach suddenly felt chilly.

  Would winter ever give up its claim over England?

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have spent the day before indoors. Had she not gone to the British Museum, she wouldn’t have experienced the unfortunate incident with the man who claimed his name was Adonis. She might have spent the day riding in the park, or taking a stroll in Kensington Gardens, or sitting under the maple trees in Berkeley Square enjoying an ice or a lemonade from Gunter’s Tea Shop. Instead, she had communed with a collection of marble statues thousands of years old and breathed in the musty air given off by ancient artifacts.

  No wonder she’d had such odd dreams the night before!

  But she had also breathed in the scent of a rather enticing cologne.

  The sandalwood and spice cologne of Adonis. She could almost smell the scent this very moment. The pillow next to hers seemed to have given off the scent, making her wonder if perhaps a pillow covering from her late husband’s bed linens might have been mixed up with hers when the household maid had last changed the sheets. Although, when Lydia gave it some more thought, she couldn’t remember Jasper having worn a similar scent. What she could remember of him was a scent closer to that of the laundry soap used to wash his shirts and cravats. Citrus—lemon, mostly—with just a hint of spice.

  Lydia blinked. How odd that she thought of Jasper just then. She conjured an image of him in her mind’s eye, a bit concerned when she didn’t feel the usual sadness. Today’s venture would be her first garden party since word of her husband’s death reached her. Her mourning period was over. It was time to consider the future. Time to begin living it.

  Probably time to return to work as well. Boredom would consume her if she didn’t have something intriguing to occupy her time.

  She allowed a sigh as she was about to lift the lion-head knocker on the front door of Carlington House. The door opened before she could do so, revealing Alfred, a rather staid butler who was said to be one of the most reserved butlers in all of Park Lane.

  “Lady Barrymore for Lady Morganfield’s garden party,” she murmured as she stepped into the vestibule.

  “Do you wish to keep your pelisse, my lady?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow. “I hear the weather is turning.”

  The sense of disappointment Lydia felt just then had her smile faltering. She knew how important this garden party was to Lady Morganfield. Adeline counted on it as a means to raise monies for her charities. If the day grew cold, people would make an abbreviated visit and claim their presence was expected elsewhere. “If I need it, I’ll simply return here for it,” she replied with a nod, shedding the pelisse with almost no help from the butler.

  This event represented the first opportunity she had in nearly twelve months to wear a gown other than widow’s weeds, and she was determined to allow the gown to be seen.

  The soft apricot muslin, sprigged with green leaves and tiny blossoms in a darker peach, was probably a better choice for a younger matron than she, but she dear
ly loved how her modiste had done the elaborate folded gathers at the tops of the sleeves and how she had repeated the pattern in the neckline’s edge. Lydia’s short gloves, made of silk and died to match, were the same shade as the nearly flat hat she wore at a rakish angle over one ear. A dark green parasol hung from a leather strap at her wrist. Her maid had claimed she looked rather smart just before Lydia took her leave of her bedchamber. Although she rarely took Rachel’s comments too seriously, she believed her lady’s maid today.

  Despite having experienced the oddest dreams the night before—she was quite sure one included Adonis and her in a compromising position—she felt happier this day than she had in weeks. The gown she wore merely emphasized her mood.

  “Lady Barrymore, so glad you could join us,” Adeline Carlington, Marchioness of Morganfield, said with a brilliant smile when Lydia emerged from the French doors at the back of the house. A small group of ladies were assembled near a table set up with champagne flutes and trays of biscuits and tiny sandwiches.

  “Oh, call me Lydia, please. Thank you for the invitation. Word of your tulips had me visiting my own gardens to discover if mine might have bloomed, as well,” she replied as she curtsied.

  “And? Have they?” Adeline countered, one dark eyebrow arched in query. The Italian daughter of a count always looked far more exotic than any English miss ever could.

  “A few, along with some very late daffodils. I cannot believe how uncooperative the weather has been for flowers this year.”

  “No one can,” Adeline agreed, hooking her arm into Lydia’s so that she could lead her newest guest to the group of ladies already assembled near the refreshment table on the back lawn. “Lady Devonville claims her husband knows a man who can explain why we’re not having a spring—something to do with volcanos—but I have yet to learn the particulars.”