The man who looked like Spencer—but wasn’t—tugged her closer. She gave him a quick elbow to the stomach, and as he collapsed with a groan, she rolled out of bed and onto the floor.
Spencer was immediately there to pick her up and draw her into his arms, and while she clung to him, she stared at the other man, now lounging back against the pillows and watching her beneath half-lowered lids.
“Spencer, you said you had a brother,” she finally said, “but you never said he was your twin.”
Spencer squeezed her tighter. “It never came up. This is Alex—who’d better keep his hands to himself from now on. Roselyn, I’ve been so worried! Where have you been? How did you escape?”
She still frowned at his brother. “But I called you Spencer, and you didn’t correct me!”
“I’ve been Spencer more often during the last two years than he has, apparently. It didn’t even occur to me to correct a beautiful woman for such a simple mistake, not when you were so…concerned for me. I just wanted a little brotherly kiss.”
At his wicked grin, she felt a blush of mortification suffuse her cheeks. She leaned back in Spencer’s embrace and looked up at him. “I thought he was you—”
Spencer sighed and framed her face with his hands. “Do not apologize. Alex has always enjoyed pretending to be other than he is.”
“And you have not?” Alex scoffed. “We were both always so good at pretending—’tis what landed us so secret a mission.”
“Us?” Spencer echoed.
Alex spread his arms wide. “But it was so treacherous and difficult to pretend to be you—especially after that scandal of your interrupted wedding.”
Roselyn stiffened and Spencer shot his brother a frown.
Alex’s eyebrows rose. “Ah, so you are that Roselyn.”
“And there have been so very many Roselyns?” she teased Spencer.
“Of course not,” he said gruffly.
Alex smiled. “Maybe not for you then, but now…”
Roselyn could not keep her gaze from straying to Spencer’s brother. Though their faces were identical, Alex wore his hair shorter, swept back off his face to reveal a pearl earbob dangling from one ear.
“So you were the ‘Spencer’ behind every scandal that reached my ears,” she said slowly.
“Only the recent ones,” Alex answered with a grin. “Before that, Spence managed all his own scandalizing.”
“Roselyn,” Spencer murmured against her hair, “I’m sorry I did not warn you about my brother. But tell me now how you escaped? I searched for you for hours, thinking—God, I cannot bear to repeat what I was thinking.”
He shuddered against her and she held him tighter.
“I came here to recruit men and organize a wider search,” he continued. “Then I began to hear that someone had been searching for me, and I left messages for you—” He glared at his brother. “And you were off at another party, and were no help to me at all!”
Alex straightened. “And how was I to know you’d returned?”
“Spencer,” Roselyn interrupted, “I was lucky enough to escape the thief and find friends in Southwark.”
He heaved a sigh and held her even more tightly. “I’m so glad you’re well,” he whispered, and the hoarseness of his voice made a sweet ache tug on her heart.
“By the time we returned for you, you were gone.” She closed her eyes and let the feelings she’d denied flood her mind.
She loved Spencer.
There could be no other reason for this trust she now placed in him without proof, no other reason that she’d felt like giving up if she lost him. He’d had the courage to answer his country’s call, even when he’d been hurting. He had kept his humor and charm, even when he thought he might die.
Roselyn was back at the beginning, giving her heart to a man and hoping he could be trusted. But Spencer was not Philip Grant, and she was no longer the immature girl who reacted angrily when she didn’t get her way. Spencer was now a part of her, body and soul. She loved him.
“We’re both fine now,” he said softly, and she clung to him with gratitude to God for keeping him safe.
Alex pointedly cleared his throat. “My turn for answers. So you’re alive, Spence. I was beginning to wonder.”
As Spencer faced his brother, Roselyn stayed beneath his arm, at his side. She realized that this was the first time the brothers had seen each other in well over a year. But there were no hugs, no warm greetings. She sensed a wariness between them.
Spencer briefly told his brother everything that had happened to him as a British agent, as well as Roselyn’s encounter with Rodney Shaw.
Alex’s frown deepened and he rested his head back against the pillow. “So this Shaw is going to claim that you murdered all those British spies, and you’re going to claim that he did it.”
“’Tis not a claim,” Spencer said tightly. “I saw it—and he tried to do the same to me.”
“But if you can’t prove it, you’ll lose your head at Tower Hill.”
“How kind of you to remind me.”
Alex swung his legs over the bed and stood up, wrapping the sheet about him with such obvious practice that Roselyn didn’t even have time to be embarrassed.
“And because I aided you in this deception,” Alex continued coldly, “This could very well be a twin execution.”
Leaning on his cane, Spencer stepped in front of Alex. “Do not worry yourself, brother. The queen knows how small your part in this has been. If anyone loses his head, it will be me.”
“Gentlemen,” Roselyn quickly said, stepping between them, “we have a problem to solve, and I think I know just how to do it.”
But before she could procure the Spanish letter, they heard a sudden pounding, then the splintering of wood. The brothers looked briefly at each other, before Alex dropped his sheet and reached for his clothes.
With a gasp, Roselyn covered her eyes.
“Sorry, but I’m not going to meet our guests quite so exposed,” Alex said.
In the distance, they heard a maidservant’s cry, then the pounding of booted feet on the stairs. Spencer suddenly grabbed her arms and held her still.
“Do not say a word to them,” he said urgently.
“But who is it?”
“Probably soldiers. You are not a part of this and I will not have you endangered.”
“But Spencer, I have something to tell you!”
Before any more words could leave her mouth, the door was thrown open and the room was suddenly full of soldiers wearing plated brigantine and waving muskets and pikes. Spencer shoved her behind him, and she wanted to scream when he was pulled from her and forced to his knees while they bound him from behind.
“On whose authority do you imprison me?” Spencer demanded.
“By Her Majesty’s authority, my lord,” said one of the soldiers. “You’re to be held for questioning.”
Alex, wearing only a shirt and wide, loose breeches over his hose, was similarly restrained. “Let me at least put on my boots,” he said with a growl.
“I am Spencer Thornton,” Spencer said. “You want me, not my brother.”
Although Alex shot Spencer a speculative look, the captain merely said, “We cannot tell the difference between you. Better that we make a small mistake than a large one.”
Roselyn stood beside the bed, clutching one of the tall posts, wondering if the queen had turned against Spencer. She felt useless, able only to cower like a weak woman while the brothers were led toward the door.
“Where are you taking them?” she demanded.
She immediately regretted her bravery when more than one soldier turned her way. Spencer looked over his shoulder, giving her a narrow-eyed warning.
“Lord Thornton has a broken leg!” she said. “Please, at least take his cane.”
To her utter surprise, the soldier holding Spencer motioned to another, who picked up the cane from the floor.
They pulled him toward the hall, but came up short as a small woman blocked their way. She was dressed in a fine black gown, and her gray hair was neat beneath a smart black cap and veil. Though Roselyn couldn’t see Spencer’s face, his entire body became rigid.
“Madre,” he said simply, with a short nod of his head.
This formidable woman had obviously faced too much in her years in England to be cowed by mere soldiers. In a lightly accented voice, she said, “You heard the young lady. Where are you taking my sons?”
As the company of soldiers moved past her, escorting Spencer and Alex from the room, their leader said, “They go to the Tower, my lady, where we take all traitors.”
The fear that spread through Roselyn was like a slow death in icy water, but she had sworn to herself that no longer would she hide away from the real world. She would take chances, brave danger—anything to free Spencer.
She lifted up her skirts and began to run, catching up with the company of soldiers as they reached the door leading to the gardens. She clutched the door frame and called, “Spencer!”
He looked over his shoulder, as the soldiers pulled him toward the river.
“I can help you!” she cried. “Trust me!”
“No!” He turned toward her, but was dragged backward. “This is my battle and I will win it. Go back to Wight—go back to John. Stay safe!”
She stood in the doorway long after the soldiers had loaded Spencer and his brother onto a barge. Though she knew he was only trying to protect her, his words still angered her, as if after all the intimacies they’d shared, she would abandon him.
With a sigh, she finally closed the door, then turned and found the hall scattered with servants watching her with expressions ranging from disgust to interest to amusement.
She lifted her chin, hoping they’d disperse without her insisting on it. But they continued to stare until an older gentleman smartly attired in blue and gold livery stepped forward.
“I think it is time you left, mistress,” he said calmly.
“Left?” she repeated, using the haughtiest tone learned from her mother. “I have business here.”
“I am quite certain the master no longer needs your particular business.”
He thought she was a harlot! Before she could defend herself, a woman’s voice called, “Hold!”
Spencer’s mother stood at the top of the stairs, as regal and unsmiling as the queen. Roselyn felt a tremor of worry, imagining how she would explain her actions to the viscountess.
“Young lady,” Lady Thornton said, “I believe we have met before, but your name eludes me.”
Roselyn walked forward and stopped at the foot of the stairs. “I am Roselyn Harrington Grant, my lady.”
There was a moment of tense silence, and she was certain that Lady Thornton must be feeling nothing but hatred for her.
Lady Thornton glanced at the man who’d asked Roselyn to leave. “Allbright, please have the servants return to their work. See to it that within two days this house is as I last saw it.”
There was a sudden flurry of movement, and the hall was soon deserted but for Roselyn and Lady Thornton. Roselyn remained still, waiting for anger and condemnation as Spencer’s mother descended the stairs, but the older woman only said, “Please walk with me, Lady Roselyn.”
With Roselyn silent at her side, the viscountess toured the hall as if she’d never seen it before. It was difficult for Roselyn to hold her peace when she wanted to blurt out the danger Spencer was in and beg for Her Ladyship’s help.
Lady Thornton came to a halt before a recessed shelf set in the wall, lit with candles. Proudly on display was the statue of her naked son—with wings.
Lady Thornton shook her head. “Madre de Dios, but he makes it like the shrine of a saint, does he not?”
Roselyn couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. “I think it was done in pride and jest, my lady. I understand that Alex presented it to Queen Elizabeth, though it seems the queen did not wish it displayed long.”
She was beginning to realize who was the truly scandalous twin.
“You seem to know much about my sons, for someone who wanted no part of this family.”
“I have only met Alex today, my lady, but I have spent much time with Spencer this last month.”
“I did not know he had returned from Europe,” Lady Thornton said, eyeing Roselyn with narrowed dark eyes. “Perhaps you would care to tell me what led to this…injustice.”
Roselyn told Lady Thornton about Spencer’s mission, and how he had recovered from his injuries on the Isle of Wight. She left out the details of their new relationship.
Lady Thornton had brought her into a drawing room during the explanation, and both now sat upon cushioned chairs. “I knew some of what Spencer was involved in, because I insisted Alexander reveal it.”
Roselyn smiled.
“For one day only, Alexander pretended to be his brother in front of me. As if I would not know the difference between my own sons,” Lady Thornton sniffed. “Alexander told me that Spencer was performing a secret duty for the queen, but spared me the true extent of the danger. I preferred to continue my mourning in Cumberland, but weeks ago Alexander sent for me to keep me ‘safe,’ or so he claimed, should England be invaded. But I believe he felt guilty, because Spencer made him promise to visit me often, and it usually…slipped his mind.”
She wore a faint, amused smile, and Roselyn saw the love she bore her sons.
“Lady Thornton, if you have no more questions for me, I must journey to the Tower. I might have evidence to convince the queen that Spencer is innocent.”
“Of course he’s innocent,” Lady Thornton said, waving a hand dismissively. “But first I must know why you followed him to London.”
“But I already told you about Rodney Shaw. He could be in town already. I must—”
“No, there is another reason.”
Again Roselyn felt the power of penetrating black eyes, so like Spencer’s, and she shifted uncomfortably.
“Two years ago you broke the betrothal contract rather than marry my son.”
Roselyn stiffened. “Yes, my lady.”
“Why do you help him now?”
“We both had done things we regretted then. I knew Spencer didn’t love me, and his treatment of me…” She trailed off, hesitating to offend his mother.
“Was abominable,” Lady Thornton finished with conviction. “And I could not understand why. His father and I raised him to respect women, and his reluctance to marry made no sense to us.”
“I think I finally understand it,” Roselyn said. “He never thought he could have the kind of marriage you and his father had. He implied to me that his heritage often left him feeling that no woman would want him. He had no way to tell you this without hurting you, so he…”
“He hurt you instead,” Lady Thornton whispered.
Roselyn saw the sheen of tears in those proud eyes.
“But you have forgiven him?” Lady Thornton asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you love him?”
“Yes,” Roselyn said without hesitation.
The older woman relaxed her shoulders the slightest bit. “Does my son love you?”
“He has not spoken the words, my lady, so I cannot say for certain. He is too conscious of the danger to you and Alex, and to me.”
“Very well. We will worry about this matter at another time,” Lady Thornton said in a firm voice.
Roselyn thought she might be hiding a smile, and felt herself warm to this woman who loved her husband and sons so much she braved the enmity of a foreign land.
“Now we must set these mistakes to right,” Lady Thornton continued. “I will ask for an audience with the queen.”
“No, my lady, you must let me do this. And please don’t think it is because the war is with your people.”
Lady Thornton stood up, her back straight with pride. “I am an Englishwoman now, Lady Roselyn. Why would I think such a thing? But how can you help my sons?”
“Because I might have the proof that will convince the queen of Shaw’s guilt. And I could use your help.”
Soon the two women were back in the master suite, their heads bent over the letter written in Spanish. Lady Thornton frowned as she read.
“What does it say?” Roselyn asked anxiously.
“These are orders to kill a Mr. Smythe, a British agent who was discovered. It is signed by Señor de Alcega. Do you know this name?”
“No,” she said, refusing to acknowledge the panic that made her fingers tremble upon the letter. She pointed to the top of the parchment. “Is this not a name?”
“No, formal greetings only,” the Lady Thornton said, shaking her head. “Bah, murderers who politely greet one another.”
“Then there is no proof.” Roselyn felt as bereft and cold as if Spencer were already dead.
“What did you say the name of the traitor is?”
“Rodney Shaw,” she whispered, then half-heartedly looked at where Lady Thornton pointed.
Though the curling handwriting made it hard to see, at the end of a sentence was the word “Shaw,” as if the writer had addressed his cohort by name.
“That’s it!” she breathed, grinning at the viscountess. She gave the older woman a hug, then blushed as she quickly pulled back. “Forgive my impertinence, my lady.”
“It is not impertinent when you are trying to help my son,” Lady Thornton said with a smile.
“But what if we’re too late? What if—”
“The queen will want to deal with Spencer herself—he was a great favorite of hers. But she will most likely let him languish and contemplate his sins for a while.”
“Then I will send her a missive asking for an audience, to show her the proof of Spencer’s innocence.”
“You can try, querida—but she might make you wait as well.”