A SINFUL SURRENDER: Spies and Lovers Read online

  “What in blazes? You betrayed us? But why?”

  No answer was forthcoming. Grunts and curses punctuated the sound of fists hitting flesh. A fight, perhaps to the death, was occurring beyond her hiding place, and all she could do was clamp her hand over her mouth and remain still. Although her knees had turned to water, she was nowhere near a swoon.

  Her expectations of what gentlemen did and did not do had been shattered by the evening’s events. Perhaps she was boring and common and only just passable, but she wasn’t dense. Not in the least. Whatever Quinton had found was worth more than her life. If the cold stranger found her, a polite offer to escort her back to the ballroom would not be offered.

  A keening sound and a loud thud were followed by a spate of silence. Was it over? Was she alone? Her blood raced, and her mind picked over possibilities. Drowning in the tension, she peeked around the side of the curtain. Legs clad in black satin breeches were splayed on the floor, and a torso was hidden behind the settee. One of the man’s silver-buckled shoes had come off, leaving his stocking-covered toes pointing toward the ceiling.

  “Foolish, young pup,” the other man said with his back toward her. The timbre of his voice fingered him as the man who had entered second, which meant the man on the floor was the unfortunate Quinton.

  The second man’s fine black evening clothes and polished riding boots indicated wealth, and his bearing spoke of maturity. Strangely, he wore a hat even inside. Not the tall hat of a gentleman, but a slouched hat more common with country gentry. It also did a fair job disguising the man’s hair and face, which she supposed was the point.

  What shot bone-chilling fear through her was the man’s calm stillness. The fight had not left him with latent aggression or panic. In fact, he wasn’t paying any attention to the man sprawled behind the settee. No, he stared toward the mantel. What was so interesting?

  He tapped the edge of the glass she’d been drinking from before lifting it to the light and examining the small amount of liquor at the bottom. His black gloves cast long shadows against the bright crystal facets. Her heart crimped. She ducked her head back behind the curtain and curled her toes, hoping her slippers weren’t sticking out. Her feet weren’t exactly petite.

  Light, nearly soundless, footsteps tread. In which direction? She squeezed her eyes shut, expecting to feel the whoosh of the curtains being drawn. Instead, the click of the door closing clanged like a bell of freedom. For a dozen more beats of her heart, she remained hidden. At the continued silence, she drew the curtain aside.

  The intimidating man was gone. She shuffled from behind the curtains and stared at the legs of the man on the floor. They didn’t so much as twitch.

  “Sir? Mr. Quinton, I presume? Are you well?” Her mouth and throat were dry, and her voice was thin.

  She felt like an utter nincompoop. Quinton obviously wasn’t well, and he would need more help than she would be able to provide. Girding herself to seek Lord Harrington, she sidestepped to the door. The full sight of the man on the floor stopped her short.

  Crimson spread over his white shirt and cravat like an ink stain, and his gray and silver waistcoat was wet with blood. Although no wound was visible, a five-inch narrow blade with a very pointy, deadly-looking tip had been discarded on his chest. But it was his eyes, staring vacantly at the ceiling, that shoved her closer to a swoon than she’d ever been.

  The shake started in her legs and spread to every part of her. Even though her head told her there was nothing anyone could do to help the man now, she fell to her knees at his side. She picked up the knife between her thumb and forefinger. Her gaze shifted between the face of man and the knife.

  Who was Hawkins? What book had Quinton been tasked to retrieve, and why was it worth killing for? The biggest question of all was what was she to do now? Find her parents or Lady Casterly? Seek Lord Harrington? What would the murderer do if she confessed all to the constable?

  Another question popped into her head. Why wasn’t she swooning or screaming or having a fit of hysterics like a normal young lady? A numb coldness held her frozen and distanced her from the moment as if she were immersed in a nightmare.

  “Am I dreaming?” Her whisper echoed in the empty room.

  “You aren’t dreaming.” Marcus Ashemore, Lord Wyndam, stood with his back to the window.

  A window that had been conveniently left cracked for his uninvited intrusion. The tools to pry it open weighed heavy in the pocket of his jacket, and he’d been overjoyed not to have to use them while perched on the narrow ledge too far off the ground for his comfort. Unfortunately, his joy was short-lived.

  Much like the dead man bleeding out on the Aubusson rug.

  The lady in white holding the deadly stiletto knife over the man’s body was certainly a surprise. And not a good one. A drop of blood fell from the tip to spatter on her gown, the sight malevolently poetic and disturbing.

  “Who in the blazes are you?” Marcus kept his voice low so as not to give her cause to scream the house down upon them. Although, seeing as how she was unfazed by the dead man, he assumed she didn’t want to be caught red-handed either—literally, in her case.

  “Who are you?” She scrambled to her feet, the knife still dangling awkwardly from her fingers.

  When he stepped forward, she stepped back. A sprinkling of freckles across her nose lent a naivete that contrasted with the intelligence projected in her sharp dark eyes. Chestnut ringlets of hair drooped over her ears, the curls unspooling. Her hair was too thick and straight to conform to the current style. Her dress was high-necked, white, and demure with a blue sash, yet her womanly curves contrasted sharply with the childish bows and ruffles.

  Pure innocence splashed with the blood of sin.

  “Why did you kill him? Lover’s spat?” Marcus gestured to the dead man but never took his eyes off her or her knife.

  “No! Of course not. I didn’t do anything. Why would you think such?” Her voice sailed into a high squeak of shock, her fear palpable.

  “Dead man. Knife.” He pointed from the body to her. “Natural conclusion, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I didn’t kill him. I was hiding when it happened.” She gripped the handle of the knife more firmly now and pointed it at him. The assassin’s instrument of death looked incongruous being held by this young woman in her debutante’s dress. The way the blade wavered gave credence to her assertion of innocence.

  Now that he was closer, Marcus recognized her calm was, in reality, shock. Her eyes were wide and her face pale. He knelt, keeping the body between them, and lay his fingers along the side of the man’s neck. No rush of blood through veins could be detected. He sat back on his haunches and let his hands dangle between his knees. The complications piled up by the day.

  “Did you see who did kill him?” He looked up at her.

  Her mouth opened and closed, and her tongue darted out to daub her lips. She was weighing how much to tell him. Wise. “I was behind the curtain.”

  She had seen or heard something. The horror scrolling across her face hinted at a story. A story he needed to hear. Excitement quickened his heart. This was as close to a piece of the puzzle as he’d found since he’d vowed to clear his father’s name of treason.

  “What did you see? Who did you see?”

  Her gaze darted to the dead man. Her face matched the white of her dress, and her trembles amplified. If she swooned, he would get nothing from her.

  “Don’t look at him. Look at me.” He rose and injected a soft croon into his voice he usually reserved for his dog or his horses. “I won’t hurt you.”

  “How can I possibly trust you?” Although suspicion ran rife through her words, her gaze was glued to his. Was she merely an innocent in the wrong place, or was she a player or pawn in the deadly game afoot?

  “I’m all you have at the moment, lass.”

  “You’re Scottish?”

  He grabbed his heart as if she’d wounded him. “Half Irish, and I’m appalled you’d suppose ot
herwise.” His attempt at humor did nothing to ease her mounting panic.

  Muffled voices drifted from the hallway, and he mouthed a curse. Were they merely on the hunt for the gaming room, or were they searching for the book too?

  The lady turned in a circle as if seeking an escape, her skirts floating around her ankles. He glanced over the wall, nearly missing the door. They couldn’t be found. Not like this. One or both of them might be hauled off to Newgate for murder, and considering his tarnished family name, he would be hanged before the week was out.

  Stalking by her, he grabbed a chair and shoved it under the door latch. It wasn’t a terribly sturdy chair, but it would slow their discovery. Back at the window in a trice, he swung his leg over the sill.

  The climb had been precarious enough for him in breeches and boots. How would a lady manage in skirts? She would have to manage though, because she was coming with him. While he was confident enough in her innocence of the murder, she was in possession of valuable information. Information the men on the other side of the door might view as a threat to be eliminated.

  He couldn’t allow it. She might very well hold the key to unlocking the mystery of his father’s downfall and death. He needed time to coax it out of her. Time they could ill afford to waste.

  The lady faced the door with the knife out, looking ready to fight to the death.

  “Come on, then.” He tried to quell his urgency, but it sneaked into his voice nonetheless.

  “What?” She glanced over her shoulder at him.

  He held out a hand. “We don’t have much time.”

  “I can’t… What about him?” She pointed at the dead man with the knife.

  “There’s nothing we can do to help him, and if we’re caught, questions neither one of us wants to answer will be asked. Not to mention, it will be more than your dress that’s ruined.”

  She blinked and swayed, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her, then she ran her free hand down her skirts, smearing more blood.

  “My dress,” she whispered.

  Marcus couldn’t have her swooning at this point. He pulled his leg back inside, grabbed her elbow, and tugged her toward the window. “You can fall apart after we’ve reached safety.”

  “But my mother. Lady Casterly.” She planted her feet with more determination than he’d given her credit for and shifted as if she planned to exit the study and reenter the ballroom.

  “You can’t go back. Not covered in a dead man’s blood,” Marcus whispered as kindly as his impatience allowed.

  The handle jiggled, and a voice called out, “I say, who’s there? Let us in this instant.”

  Marcus gave her a little shake. “Make your decision. Are you coming with me or staying to face the consequences?”

  Chapter 2

  Delilah stared at the man’s mouth. It had moved, and she was fairly certain he had asked her to follow him out of the second-story window. “Are you addlepated, sir?”

  Those same lips twitched into the briefest of smiles. How could he find a smidgen of humor in the situation? One man was dead, his murderer might very well be dancing downstairs, and other men were beating down the door.

  “There are some who say I most certainly am.”

  The door shook with the force being applied to open it. Did she dare go with a stranger out the window and into the unknown? Did she dare stay to attempt an explanation?

  The murderer would no doubt hear her tale through the gossip mill, and then what? He wouldn’t balk at killing a woman with a loose tongue. The man in front of her might be a scoundrel, but he was a scoundrel offering her an escape. A means to save herself and her reputation.

  She could make her way home, sneak into her room, and burn her dress. She’d think of a story to satisfy her mother later. One involving a headache or tossing up her accounts and, most assuredly, not involving a murder.

  Once upon a time, she would have been able to concoct a corker of a tale, but it had been a long while since she’d had an adventure outside her books. Adventures were dangerous, and people could die.

  She could die.

  For the past two years, her mother had drilled the importance of safety, decorum, and following a strict set of rules. Delilah was never to leave their rented town house without a maid and a footman. She was never to be alone with a gentleman. She was never to let herself get lost, because she might never be found.

  Yet, even with the care she’d taken to follow her mother’s rules, here she was covered in one man’s blood and being urged out a window by another. She had landed herself smack in the middle of the kind of danger her mother lamented about. A tingle of excitement, despite the dire circumstances, had the hair on her nape wavering.

  “I won’t hang for this. Are you coming with me or not?” The man retreated to the window and gracefully swung a leg over. His vibrant green eyes drew her closer. Keeping her gaze on his as if they were tethered, she took a step, short and hesitant. Her next step was longer and more resolved. Her choices were bad and worse.

  Banishing her mother’s voice, she closed the distance between them and slid her ungloved, blood-smeared hand into the man’s. His clasp was firm, his hand rougher than she’d imagined a gentleman’s would be. But what did she know? Not counting her brother and father, she’d never touched a man’s bare hand before. Perhaps all strange men’s hands were this warm and strong and reassuring.

  He swung his other leg over and stood on a foot-wide ledge. “Come out with me. I’ll close the curtains and window to buy us some time.”

  The notes of a waltz drifted into the night air from the ballroom below. With any luck, the dance would draw everyone from the garden, leaving their unorthodox exit unobserved. She lifted her leg to cross the sill but hesitated. More than her ankle would be exposed.

  “Look away, if you please.”

  She didn’t miss his eye roll heavenward, but that’s where his gaze stayed. She raised her skirts to her knees and scrambled over the sill to the ledge, her fingers seeking handholds on the rough bricks. Her foot slipped once, sending debris to rustle the bushes. Her entire body shook as if an earthquake was centered in her heart.

  He pulled the draperies and closed the window. The barrier quieted the banging and distanced her from the dead man inside. She could almost convince herself she’d imagined it all. Except for the blood on her skirts. And her precarious position on the ledge.

  The man shuffled to the right, toward the corner of the house where it was darkest. When he had gone six feet, he looked over at her and nudged his head in an unspoken command to move.

  She did. One foot followed the other, her hands clamping onto the rough stone. The situation had spiraled out of her control as if she had been caught by a river current, one she wasn’t strong enough to fight. So she didn’t.

  She matched the man’s movements until they reached the corner. A downspout to catch rainwater ran to the ground. Another step, and she came face-to-face with the devilish face of a gargoyle standing sentinel.

  Death. Hell. Purgatory. Which had she earned tonight? Her hand slipped off the stone. Unbalanced, she teetered, her other hand scrabbling for purchase. A garbled cry for help emerged.

  The man pressed a hand against her back and pushed her against the wall. “Steady, lass.” His whisper was as soft as the night breeze. “I’ll shimmy down the pipe first.”

  The implication of his words did nothing to steady her. If he was to shimmy down first, that must mean she was next. She made the mistake of looking toward the ground. While it couldn’t have been more than three body lengths, it felt as high as London Bridge. Dizziness swamped her, and she lay her forehead against the rough stone. “I can’t.”

  “You must.” He trailed his finger down her cheek.

  The simple touch drew her attention from the bricks to his face. Light-colored stubble dotted his jaw, and laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes. His face had been burnished by the sun.

  He is handsome. The thought registered w
ith some surprise. She hadn’t been in a state of mind to notice inside. Not that clinging to the side of a lord’s town house during a ball while escaping a scene of carnage was a better locale to draw such a conclusion.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I’m your only hope.” Like a spider, he traversed down the pipe in only a few of her quickened breaths, making it look easy.

  She glanced back at the window. The men must be in the room by now. They could look outside any second. The man stood under her, gesturing with both hands, his urgency pulsing to her. Although she was sure hours must have passed, the waltz was still playing. When it ended, the garden would flood with people.

  She grabbed hold of the gargoyle’s hooked nose but couldn’t get her feet to move. Dear Lord, this is where her mother and Lady Casterly and the ton would find her. Dangling from a gargoyle’s proboscis.

  “You can do this.” His voice lilted up to her. He wouldn’t sound so confident if he knew her last adventure had ended in catastrophe.

  She took a deep breath. Still holding on to the gargoyle, she dropped one foot down and wedged it into a crack in the stone. Her slippered foot was pinched but stable. She did the same for her other foot. She lowered herself another few feet in the same method. The tiniest of smiles broke through the panic. She was going to make it.

  A crack sounded. Untethered from the stone, she fell through nothing. A scream tore through her chest, but before she could free it, she made impact not with the ground but the man. She opened her eyes to the sky and felt as much as heard the man’s groan.

  “Blast and damn.”

  She was prone on top of him, her back to his front. “Are you injured, sir?”

  His answer was to put them into motion again. This time, thankfully, they remained earthbound. He rolled her until she was on her back, partially hidden under some shrubbery, sticks poking her in various places. He scooted on top of her and pressed her down into the grass and dirt, his body lean, hard, hot.