Pursuing The Traitor (Scandals and Spies Book 5) Read online

  Except, perhaps, Lucy Graylocke. Alex had been under the impression that the Graylocke women were to be kept in the dark regarding the family’s spy efforts. However, if Lucy was back here…

  Why was she back here? She held a small, leather-bound journal in one hand, a pencil stuck between the pages. Had she found a clue, something he had missed?

  It had been three months since Monsieur V had vanished into smoke. Three months during which Alex had been chasing his tail searching for a lead. Frustrated, he’d decided to forget everything he knew and start again. The last sighting of the slippery spymaster had been at Lady Belhaven’s masquerade, which unfortunately Alex had not attended, and he’d been wearing a Tudor costume. So Alex had searched the tailors, the museums, and now the theaters. Had Lucy found something pertaining to the case?

  Ask her.

  He couldn’t. He couldn’t know for certain that Morgan had assigned her to chase Monsieur V. In fact he wouldn’t, not without a partner. Alex had been reprimanded more than once for looking into matters without a second person to watch his back.

  No, more likely she was here to chase some other thrill, flirt with the actors or some other banal activity. Who knew what ladies did these days for entertainment? Alex certainly didn’t. After all, he hadn’t kept their company for well over a year, barring the occasional female partner during a mission for the Crown.

  Oh, he’d kept up appearances, for the sake of his cover. But he hadn’t continued his rakish ways past his brother, Camden’s, death. Now, he was walking in his footsteps in every way except perhaps the most pivotal—an untimely death. The moment he’d laid his father and brother’s bodies to rest, Alex had pledged himself in service to the Crown. Something, perhaps, that he should have done while his brother had still been alive.

  At least then, he would have been able to watch Camden’s back. The golden boy, apparently too foolhardy to know when he’d gotten himself into too deep trouble.

  What would his father have to say about him, now?

  As the young woman in front of him curtsied, spreading her lilac skirts, Alex shook himself from his reverie and inclined his head in answer.

  “Lord Brackley.” Her mouth, with its wide lower lip, curled up at the corner, mischievous. Her coffee-dark eyes twinkled, only a shade or two lighter than the black curls affixed to her head.

  Lady Lucy Graylocke might pretend innocence—at least enough to arouse such a protective instinct in her brother—but in that moment, Alex knew her for a very dangerous woman. Dangerous to a man’s sanity. And, given the way her brothers guarded her as zealously as lions, dangerous to a man’s health, no doubt.

  “I must admit, I didn’t expect to find you here.” Her voice was laced with amusement. She clutched that notebook to her chest as though it were a life raft.

  What did she have hidden in those pages? Was she investigating Monsieur V on behalf of the Crown and if so, what had she found?

  Alex burned to know. The desire was so swift and sudden that it was nigh undeniable. If she hadn’t been holding the book so tight, he might have snatched it out of her hand, hoping to read the secrets contained within.

  Monsieur V… Alex would catch him. He’d see that the man got what he deserved.

  He pretended innocence. “At the theater?”

  Her smile grew. “Backstage.”

  “I imagine I’m here for the same reason you are.” Was he? Those words were the closest he dared come to asking if she were on assignment for the Crown.

  But if she were, where was her partner? One of the Graylocke brothers would have been hanging on her coattails.

  Her eyes widened with feigned innocence, the act given away by the smirk affixed to her lips. “You came to ask the actresses for cosmetic tips?”

  Cheeky little minx.

  He raised his hand to his heart and played along. “You’ve found me out! I do hope you’ll keep it a secret. My sparkling reputation, you know.”

  Judging by the strangled sound she made, she stifled a laugh. Her eyes were alight with amusement. As she stepped closer, her hips swayed, drawing his attention to her figure.

  Don’t look. He couldn’t help himself, and given the look of satisfaction on her face, she knew it, too. She was beautiful from afar, but lively and breathtaking up close.

  And clever. Maybe even conniving, because she used his attention to her benefit. She whispered, forcing him to lean closer in order to catch her words.

  “Don’t worry, my lord. Your secret’s safe with me. I wouldn’t want your friend to get the wrong impression.”

  She thought he was meeting a lover. He grinned before he caught himself and sobered his expression. How wrong she was. But she intrigued him. Most women in her position would be scandalized, or disapproving at the very least. But the look she gave him was almost…encouraging. As if she egged him on simply to see what he would do.

  Sorry to disappoint. He wasn’t here to meet with a lover, after all.

  She tipped her face up to his. “Do you always sneak by before the performance? It seems to me that you’d be better off waiting until the end.”

  He laughed. Was she giving him advice on how to conduct a liaison?

  “My dear, you have the wrong impression of me.”

  “Do I?”

  She narrowed her eyes, drawing his attention to her thick, sultry eyelashes. Her lips pursed, begging for a kiss.

  He couldn’t give it to her.

  “My brother’s warned me about you.”

  “Has he?” Morgan had warned him as well—explained in far too explicit detail what would happen if Alex were ever found in a compromising position with Lucy.

  A position such as being alone with her in the back corridor of a theater. He took a subtle step away from her and the heat of her body.

  He couldn’t help but tease her, though. “Perhaps you ought to listen to him. It’s a thin line you’re treading, associating with a man of my reputation. It could be dangerous.”

  Dangerous for him, that was. He wouldn’t harm a hair on Lucy’s head, regardless of her brother’s threat.

  Oh, but she reminded him of the game of seduction. Making himself out to seem just dangerous enough to get a woman’s heart pounding, making himself into the thing she shouldn’t have. And then, leaving her with a bit of mystery, walking away. In the end, he rarely had to pursue them again. Eventually, when they searched for a bit of excitement, they always came crawling to him.

  With a wink, he inclined his head again. “If you’ll excuse me, my lady, I believe I ought to search out my seat before the performance begins.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned away and strode down the corridor.

  That was reckless. Even if the lure had been too much to deny. Could he tempt a woman like Lady Lucy? Better he not know. If she sought out his company, he’d be a dead man. The Duke of Tenwick had made himself perfectly clear. Lucy Graylocke was the one woman Alex could never have.

  But her activities today were suspicious, nonetheless. She might bear watching. If he were lucky, she could lead him straight to the man who had torn his family asunder.

  3

  The seamstress, a pretty young thing smattered with freckles, smiled at Lucy, Charlie, and their chaperone Mrs. Vale and asked, “Have you given any thought as to the style of the dress you’d like?”

  Charlie picked one out of the book straight away while her mother hovered over swatches of fabric, lifting them to check the color against her daughter’s porcelain skin. They each seemed distracted.

  Before the seamstress turned her attention back to Lucy, Lucy said, “Drat. Charlie, why don’t you get fitted first? I have a sketch in my notebook, but I must have left it in the carriage. I’ll only be a moment.”

  Mrs. Vale glanced up with a frown. She looked from Lucy to her daughter, clearly conflicted. Lucy pasted on a smile. “The carriage is waiting just down the street. I won’t be long at all.”

  Charlie, unperturbed, held up a swatch of vibrant pink tha
t made her look like a ghost. Lucy frowned. Charlie knew that color made her look ghastly. Then again, that was probably why she’d chosen it. The last thing Charlie wanted to do was attract a potential husband. “What do you think, Mama? This is pretty.”

  Lucy breathed a sigh of relief as Mrs. Vale turned away. Before either Vale woman paused to pay more attention to her, Lucy slipped out the door and into the thin, dreary drizzle seeping from the sky. She pulled the hood of her pelisse up over her curls and strode briskly down the street—in the opposite direction from the ducal carriage.

  It had taken a bit of persuasion, but she’d convinced the Vales to try a different seamstress from the one the Graylocke family usually used. Although not as reputable as their usual seamstress, this shop had the benefit of residing closer to the tailor to whom the costumer had referred her. She didn’t have long—after all, the carriage wasn’t far and if she didn’t return soon, Mrs. Vale would undoubtedly grow suspicious and come looking for her—but hopefully, she would have enough time to question the tailor and learn more about Monsieur V.

  Her story about forgetting her notebook in the carriage was pure drivel. As she slipped between two brick buildings into an alley so narrow she nearly brushed both shoulders against the walls, she pulled the little book from her reticule and readied her pencil. At the end of the alley was another street, too narrow for a carriage, that ended in a row of squashed little shops. A wooden sign hanging from above one plain door depicted four white triangles, each meeting in the middle to resemble the blades of a windmill. Her heartbeat sped. This was it! Composing herself, she reached for the handle and stepped inside.

  The interior of the shop was as squished as the outside. A long counter divided it neatly lengthwise down the center. On the far wall, a faded crimson curtain separated the front room from another in the back. The space in front of the counter was filled with displays of the tailor’s work, primarily replica historical garments like one might wear to a masquerade. The hodgepodge of eras reminded Lucy of the portrait hall at Tenwick Abbey, where all the family’s old heirlooms had been stuffed out of sight. The shop was otherwise empty.

  “Hello?” Lucy called. Was the tailor out? If so, he would do better to lock his door. “Is anyone here?”

  The curtain rustled. A little man, as squat as the shop, bustled from the back. Joseph Gordon was clean-shaven and kept a neat appearance. His hairline was receding and he had deep wrinkles around his eyes, nose, and mouth. Lucy didn’t understand why the theater’s costumer had referred to the tailor as Black-Eyed Joe, however; from her position by the door, his eyes appeared a pale blue or green, as far as she could tell.

  “Hello, young lady. How can I help you? Looking to make an impression at your next ball?”

  Lucy couldn’t decide if the man guessed her social status by her clothes or if the only people who ever came into his shop were women looking for masquerade clothes. If the latter, he ought to be able to point her in Monsieur V’s direction without preamble.

  “Actually, I’ve come to ask you a question.”

  As she approached the counter, the tailor looked disgruntled. He glanced over her shoulder toward the door, as if hoping that her chaperone would soon step through and take her to task. No such luck, my friend.

  “It’ll only take a moment,” she added. After all, she didn’t have more than a moment to spare. Every second that she spent here ticked in her head like the echoes of a grandfather clock.

  Black-Eyed Joe grunted. “What’s your question?”

  “About three months ago, I met a man at a masquerade who wore an exquisite King Henry costume. It had your symbol right about here,” she demonstrated with her hands, “under the collar. Do you remember that costume?”

  Or the man, she added silently.

  “Ah. He said you’d be in. It’s about time.”

  Wait…what was about time? Who was he—Monsieur V? Lucy clasped her hands hard around her book as she struggled to rein in her whirling thoughts. Had Monsieur V been watching her movements in London since she’d returned?

  Perhaps she should reach out to her brothers, after all.

  “Wait right here,” the tailor said, interrupting her thoughts. Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he spun on his heel and slipped behind the curtain once more.

  Lucy waited. She tapped her toe. Why had he suddenly left?

  Ice chilled her as a thought dawned. He might have sent a runner to the infamous spymaster in order to corner her! Lucy turned, abandoning her quest for information. Her heartbeat sped. As she reached the door, the tailor shuffled into the main room again, the curtain swishing.

  “Here you are. It’s all made to the right specifications, but if you’d care to try it on, I can make some alterations.”

  What? Her ears ringing, Lucy turned around.

  The tailor set a wide, round box on the counter. The lid sported his recognizable four-triangle signature. He lifted the lid to display a mass of dove gray and periwinkle blue fabric beneath, dotted with seed pearls. When he lifted part of it to drape over his forearm, Lucy recognize the length of fabric for a dress.

  But she hadn’t ordered one. She’d never even been here before. With a weak smile, she approached the counter again. “Are you certain that’s meant for me? I never ordered it.”

  His attitude businesslike, he shut the dress away in the box once more. “Young lady with black hair, brown eyes, and bearing of a peer. I don’t get many that meet that description in my shop. He’s already paid for it, if that’s what you’re worried about. Oh, and he left this, too.” The tailor tugged a crinkled envelope from his jacket pocket and tossed it atop his symbol on the box. It slid a little off-center.

  A letter. From Monsieur V?

  “Jibberish, if you ask me, but he paid me to pass it along, so there it is.”

  He’d read the letter? It must be in code. And if it were in code it was almost certainly from the spy she chased. She dipped into her reticule and found a shilling to tip the man.

  “Thank you for your time.” Hefting the box—and, more importantly, the letter—she turned away. She juggled her package as she exited the shop.

  The moment she stepped out into the little square, she shut the door behind her and huddled in the overhanging eaves to keep out of the rain. She wrestled the letter open and pinned it to the box with her thumb as she skimmed it.

  To the untrained eye, it likely looked a fright. The letter was a long one, filled with a string of banal sentences that jumped from one topic to the next without reason or meaning. However, as Lucy looked it over, she noticed that several words were misspelled. In fact, the letter was riddled with misspelled words.

  It was a code. One she’d certainly copied from Morgan’s office. Awkwardly, she juggled her notebook onto the top of the pile and started to flip through the pages. Drops from the eaves plunked on the edge of the round box. She pressed herself against the door, trying to protect it and herself from the falling moisture.

  Where was the cipher? She reached the end of her notebook and swore under her breath. She must have copied it into a different notebook. It had been several months ago. The notebook in question might not even be in London, though she was usually careful to pack them all, seeing as they held snippets of research and plot ideas that might prove useful at one time or another. Did she bring the letter home and decipher it there?

  The spellings were key. She remembered that much. Unwilling to admit defeat, she combed through the letter and copied each misspelled word into her notebook in order. Then she stared at the page. The cipher… Once it had clicked, she’d thought it rather simple. But what had the trick been?

  Ah. As she remembered, she held her lower lip between her teeth and deciphered the code. She brimmed with triumph as she read over her finished note. She crossed out and modified two words before she was satisfied with the result.

  Midnight, Leighton’s west terrace, opening night. Wear the dress. Come alone. Tell no one. I’ll know if you d
o. M.V.

  Lucy’s lungs ached. As she realized she was holding her breath, she let it out in a rush. Cool, moist air flooded her lungs as she inhaled. Opening night…opening night of what? She was missing something, some integral piece of the puzzle, and if she didn’t find it in time, she would miss this opportunity. Monsieur V was handing her the opportunity to speak with him again in the flesh!

  Stuffing her notebook into her reticule, she fisted the note and pulled open the box just wide enough to slip her hand inside. She groped through the muslin until she felt something hard and rectangular. She pulled out a card.

  An invitation to Lady Leighton’s house party. The invitation wasn’t addressed to her by name. Presumably, all she had to do was present this to Lady Leighton’s butler in order to be invited into the house. This was it! She could catch him.

  But wait—she only had one invitation. Did that mean it would only admit herself, not a chaperone like Mrs. Vale or even one of her brothers?

  Morgan. Guilt and anxiety swamped her as she realized that she needed to tell him about this. It was one thing for her to venture to London in order to undertake some investigative work, but she couldn’t arrest someone on his behalf. Assuming that spies were permitted to arrest others. She’d never asked.

  She’d send him a letter. No, wait, she couldn’t. Tell no one. I’ll know if you do. Those were the words Monsieur V had written. They could be a bluff but…what if Morgan had an enemy spy in his midst and didn’t know about it? Any letter she sent him might be intercepted and she didn’t have time to drive down to Tenwick Abbey and return in time for the party.

  She squared her shoulders. She could rely on no one but herself.

  You’re not a dimwit. You can do this. Her insides quivered with mixed excitement and trepidation. Ignoring the flutter, she stuffed the letter and the invitation into her reticule. The small bag that hung from her wrist bulged as she forced the two articles in alongside her notebook and other personal artifacts. The strings wouldn’t pull shut, but she tightened them enough that the letter and invitation wouldn’t slip out.