Mary slipped the corset over her chemise and held it with one hand against her chest. She did not wish to have to request help from Gabe, but without a lady’s maid available, she had no choice.
In all the years that she had been an actress and a spy, never once had she had a man perform such a personal service. Most of her own gowns were front lacing and as she often went without a corset or stays, she rarely required help to dress. At the theatre, if a costume required such under garments or if a gown buttoned in the back, she had another of the actresses aid her. But not a man. Never a man.
She stepped out from behind the puce privacy screen, catching Gabe’s attention with the movement.
“May I have help with my laces?” she asked.
He stood in stony silence, his jaw set.
“Please?” she added.
With a curt nod he rose from his position on the chaise and strode toward her. She quickly gave him her back. After a brief pause, she felt the tugging of her corset laces as he efficiently tightened them.
His fingers brushed at her back ever so slightly, but the shock of it was thrilling. Heat radiated off his body and his breath teased the hair of her half-fallen chignon. Mary closed her eyes, briefly allowing the sensation to flow through her.
She had used intimacies and desire to glean the information she required from men aiding Napoleon, but never had she felt the same passions in return. Always, she had been able to separate her own feelings from her actions with each mark. Being as busy as she was with both her position as an actress and as a spy, she had never been courted by a man, never been a man’s mistress…had never been kissed by a man that was not a mark, but for Gabriel’s kiss when she was the tender age of ten and on-stage kisses with fellow actors. Each moment she had spent with a man had been in service to Crown and country.
Why did this feel so different? Why was each innocuous touch so intoxicating?
Mary was very aware of Gabe’s deep breathing behind her, each exhalation seemingly closer than the last and each bringing with it the scent of crushed cloves and the gentle tickle of the springy, curly hair at her neck.
Mary gasped at the sudden thundering of her blood.
Gabe’s hands faltered, then hesitated. “Are you well?” he asked, his tone deep and flat.
Mary cleared her throat, reigning in her composure. “Yes, of course. That last one was a bit tight, that is all. It is well now.”
Gabe grunted, but did not answer. It was just as well, for she did not wish to explain further. She did not even know if she could explain the sudden maelstrom of…desire—surely not!—that she had just felt. But what else could account for the sudden dampness in her palms, the fluttering of her heart, or the warmth growing in her middle?
A frown creased her brow. It simply was not possible. She might miss Gabe’s friendship and continue to be hurt by his curt comments, but she did not—could not—desire him on an intimate level. It must merely be her underlying awareness that she was playing his mistress. Indeed, that must be it. It was her character, that was all.
With one last tug, Gabe stepped back, a waft of cool air rushing in to take his place. “Done. Now, if that will be all…”
Mary spun to catch him as he stepped away. “Wait!”
He turned to face her, his expression closed and distant, his blue eyes as hard as ice.
She flicked her tongue out to wet her suddenly dry lips and his gaze dropped to follow the motion, his jaw tightening. A nervous flutter pushed its way into Mary’s stomach. She hardly knew what to do; was he so dissatisfied with her, then?
“My gown buttons in the back.” She cleared her throat. “Could you…would you mind buttoning me up?”
His displeasure was evident in every taut muscle of his body, but he nodded nonetheless.
As quickly as she could without ruining her dress, Mary stepped into the coquelicot gown. It was the same colour as her travelling frock, but Mrs. McPhee had said it was an attractive shade against her skin and it brought out the red in her hair. Mary was pleased to have brought them with her for the house party.
After drawing her short cap sleeves up her arms and letting the skirts fall attractively over her hips and legs, Mary put her back to Gabe once more. This time his movements were brisk, each button put through its hole with expert swiftness. Mary hated to think how many times he had performed such a task for a woman. Why it bothered her, she did not know. Gabe was entitled to bed whomever he chose; it was not for her to feel any amount of… No. She would not even put a word to the feeling, for she knew it was not true.
As the last of her buttons were done up, Gabe swept his hands dispassionately down her sides, straightening the gown for her in what Mary knew he assumed was a helpful gesture. But what it did was send a wave of faintness through her. She bit the inside of her cheek and closed her eyes to quell the dizziness. Gabe, apparently sensing her distress, gripped her waist tighter.
“Whoa, Mary. Are you well?”
Mary forced herself to step out of his reach and turned to face him with a saucy grin.
“Of course,” she said lightly. “It has simply been too long since my last meal. I am well.”
He eyed her warily but seemed to accept her excuse. Mary swept past him with a rushed “thank you” and sat at the dressing table across the room to fix her hair.
She breathed a sigh of relief when Gabe resumed his seat on the chaise. Her stomach was abuzz with nerves, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to change the direction of her thoughts.
Although she had years of practice of doing her own hair, and was rather quick at creating ravishing curls, her hair was stubborn. However speedy her ability to put it up, it just as easily came down. It frequently fell out of her chignons, but as her pseudonym, Mary White, she needn’t be concerned, for at this particular house party, all manner of wickedness, impropriety, and debauchery was not only accepted, but encouraged.
Her stomach fluttered once more, and she pushed past it, working her fingers through her hair, until it was done. In mere minutes, she had a smart, attractive twist to her hair with curls draping downward like a weeping willow. She placed several pearl-tipped hairpins throughout her hair then twisted her head to view the effect. It was well, indeed.
Distraction was just the thing. This was a different sort of role, that was all. Mary was nervous about the job. She merely needed to focus on the familiarity of her performance, mentally separate herself from the fact that she was working intimately with a man that clearly despised her, and complete the mission.
She opened her rose scented cream and swiped at the bottom of the container, not willing to allow any of what remained to go to waste, no matter how much she looked forward to opening the new scent she had just recently purchased. She rubbed the cream into her hands, dabbing some on her neck.
With a grin on her lips, she reached into her green velvet box and pulled out a string of pearls from among her other jewellery and placed them about her collar, followed by a matching bracelet. She raised her gaze to look once more at her reflection in the looking glass, but her breath caught on a gasp.
There was Gabe gazing back at her reflection, stark hunger in his gleaming eyes. Mary’s heart flipped over then began to beat a staccato rhythm against her ribs. Her breath came fast, her chest rising and falling with each ragged gasp. She could feel her breasts swell with want in some sort of anticipatory instinct, while her mons flooded with welling desire.
Then, with a blink, the expression was gone. Just as quickly as it had appeared, it disappeared, replaced by genial contentment.
His mask was firmly in place, but Mary could not forget that expression. Indeed, the look of raw want on his features was etched in her memory. But what should she make of it?
Her own desire began to recede, and she willed her heart to return to its normal rhythm.
“Shall we?” He held out his arm.
Mary forced a smile and took in his attire. He was dressed appropriately for dinner in a black coat and trousers, starched white shirt with lace cuffs and collar, and green striped waistcoat with an emerald cravat pin winking jauntily at the base of his neck.
Mary swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat—what of that? “I should love to, darling.”
It took them several minutes, and the help of a footman, to find the parlour where all of the guests had gathered to wait for supper.
They spotted the butler just outside the door, awaiting the guests so as to announce them as they entered.
“Ah, Mr. Spencer and Miss White, how very good that you have found your way here.” The butler smiled. “I trust your room is to your liking?”
“It is very well, indeed,” Gabe said, inclining his head in appreciation.
The old man’s wrinkles deepened with his smile. “I shall announce you.”
* * *
What a supremely odd butler, Gabe thought. Very unlike any other he had seen in the house of a Lord of the realm.
Mr. Jenkins swung open the door to the parlour and announced in a carrying voice, “Mr. Anthony Spencer and Miss Mary White.” He quickly retreated from the room, allowing Mary and Gabe to pass…into the den of wolves.
As they entered the room, each pair of male eyes was riveted on Mary. Not that Gabe could blame them; she was stunningly beautiful in her dinner gown. Gabe, himself, had to rein in his inappropriate lust at the sight of her. But the fact that Mary’s beauty was obvious did not make Gabe feel any better about other men eying her with lust.
The room only held nine people, but it felt like so much more. Two men remained seated at their entrance, both hindered by the large-breasted women on their laps. The remaining two men stood, along with three women. Of the two women standing, the buxom brunette was very obviously a female of ill repute, while the other looked to be a woman of good standing. And the third…
The tall, black haired woman glided toward them with a predatory smile on her lips. “Welcome to my home,” her voice flowed over them like silk. “I am Evelyn Black, the Viscountess Kerr.”
Gabe affected a deep bow as Mary curtseyed beside him. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady,” they said in unison.
She nodded serenely in return. “Likewise, I’m sure.” Turning, she gestured toward one of the men with a woman on his lap. “Allow me to introduce my husband, Lord Kerr.”
The man in question bounced the blonde tart who laughed merrily and gripped him tighter.
The Viscountess laughed at her husband’s infidelity as though he were a mischievous young lad. “As you can see, we are all very open here.”
Evidently, Gabe thought. But then, he had expected such displays at this particular house party. Which was just one more reason that he was thankful that he was the one to accompany Mary, and not Colin. It was also another reason why he should have taken himself far, far away from Mary. She was too tempting by half.
Lady Kerr winked. “We hope you are able to keep up with us.” Before giving them a chance to respond to that lewd innuendo, she continued, “The other man with his mistress on his lap, and the ever-present Scotch in his hand, is Lord Pondridge.” The man paid them no mind as he kissed a path up his mistress’ neck. “This fine gentleman is Mr. Cecil Piper.”
The man with nondescript brown hair and dark eyes bowed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, eh wot?”
“And the last gentleman in the room,” Lady Kerr continued after their bow and curtsey, “is someone I believe you are already very familiar with, Miss White…”
An absurdly handsome man approached from across the room, a charming smile on his lips. He had desirable blond hair and deceptively laughing green eyes. Gabe hated him on sight.
He hated him more as the cad gripped Mary’s hand in his. But instead of kissing the backs of her fingers, the man had the audacity to lean in to kiss her cheek…and linger there far longer than strictly necessary, even for such an intimate gesture.
“Lord Reddington,” Mary breathed. “I am so pleased to see you again.”
“Oh, my darling, Mary, do call me James. You know how I love to hear my name on your talented tongue.”
Mary’s lips curled in an infuriating smile. Gabe’s gut churned.
“James,” she purred.
The man’s eyes rolled backward briefly, and Gabe could swear that red began to spot his vision.
“I am so pleased that you accepted my invitation.” Reddington looked pointedly at Gabe. “I see you’ve brought a friend.”
“Oh yes!” Mary jumped as though she had forgotten he was there. Damn her. “This is my very good friend Mr. Anthony Spencer. Tony, this is Lord Reddington.”
The man frowned, but mirrored Gabe’s bow. “Very good friend, is he?”
Mary had the grace to appear shamefaced. “Yes.”
Reddington placed a hand dramatically over his heart and staggered as though struck.
“You wound me, Mary!” His behaviour was playful, but Gabe saw the steel in his eyes. The man gripped Mary’s hand tighter. “I thought you would be ‘no man’s mistress.’”
Mary nodded apologetically. “It seems that I was persuaded.”
Reddington tugged her closer to him. “Perhaps you could be swayed in your choice of protector?”
That was it. Gabe had seen enough. He stepped forward and slid one arm around Mary’s shoulders, pulling her into his body. “She has protection enough at the moment, your lordship, but she thanks you for your kind offer.”
Frosty green eyes glinted at him from between sandy blond eyelashes.
“Dinner is served,” Mr. Jenkins intoned from the doorway.
Just in time. Gabe had been tempted to pound the fellow’s face and spirit Mary far away. But that would be counter-productive to their purpose.
Focus, Gabe. We are here to uncover a French spy and recover stolen documents.
The eleven of them paired off by rank. With the customary male to female pairs—with one odd woman out—the low-ranking females outnumbered the ranking males.
Lord and Lady Kerr led the group to the dining room. Much to Gabe’s chagrin, Lord Reddington paired with Mary, while Gabe was saddled with a Mrs. McArthur, Reddington’s mistress.
The dining room was just as ostentatiously appointed as the other rooms he’d seen in the home. Two chandeliers hung high above them and bright sconces lined the gilt and green velvet covered walls. The couples took their seats at the table, which glittered with silverware and sparkling flutes of champagne.
Gabe sat between Mrs. McArthur and their hostess, with Lady Kerr on his right. Mary sat directly across from him between Reddington and the hawk-like Lord Pondridge.
A hidden rear door to the dining room burst open, five footmen entering in a row, each holding two dishes. They positioned themselves each between two guests, then, in unison, placed the dish in front of the diners.
Gabe looked down at his dish. It was a bowl of what Gabe assumed was intended to be brown onion soup. But what sat before him was murky broth with floating bits of onion, coated in a thick layer of an abnormal oily substance.
Good God. Even he could create a better soup than this. Of course, he’d learned to cook from his mother at a young age, and held a great fondness for it, but he was by no means a famed cook.
The soft clinking of spoons against bowls and muttering voices filled the expansive dining room as Gabe dipped his spoon reluctantly into his “soup” and took his first taste.
The liquid sloshed nauseatingly on his tongue. Though his taste buds—and sense of self-preservation—rebelled, he forced himself to swallow. Indeed, it was far worse than he’d first assumed.
Gabe’s gaze flicked upward to see how Mary was enjoying the first course and his stomach roiled threateningly. Mary sat happily in intimate conversation with Lord Reddington, their heads close together, thick as thieves, each ignoring their revolting onion oil water.
Reddington’s gaze slipped downward to Mary’s plunging décolletage before he whispered something in her ear. Gabe fought the thunderous scowl that threatened.
Lady Kerr leaned toward him and Gabe reluctantly pried his gaze from Mary’s distressing circumstance to turn his attention to the lady at his side. “Do tell me, Mr. Spencer, how you convinced Miss White to become your mistress; I was under the impression that she would not take on a protector.”
Gabe gave her a toothy, cocksure smile, still seething over Mary’s apparent admirer. “The same way I have gotten all of my mistresses into my bed, my lady.” He winked at her. “Considerable skill.”
“Mmm.” Her voice had a throaty resonance. “My lover has yet to arrive to this little house party… Perhaps you should pay a visit to my bedchamber so you can show me just how considerable your skill is.” She ran a finger around the rim of his shirt collar, scraping the underside of his jaw with her nail.
Gabe hid a grimace at the sharp pain.
Blazes. She could very well have drawn blood.
Swallowing down his revulsion, Gabe forced his smile to grow and his eyes to warm.
He opened his mouth to inform her that he would consider her offer—though Lord knew he would never sleep with a woman not only so high above his station but one so overpoweringly irritating—but his reply was cut off by deep, boisterous laughter. Through the main dining room doors came five late-arrivals.
The scraping of chairs echoed through the room as the diners rose to greet the guests.
The first man to enter was a nearly forty, portly, well-dressed fellow, likely of the peerage. He entered with a petite, young, red haired woman who was very clearly his mistress, for she hung adoringly on his arm. Behind them was another man, though this one was vastly different from the first, where the former was tall and round, this man was short and slender. Gabe gazed at him with a critical eye. He was likely not a peer but dressed far above his station. He, very like Gabe’s disguise, was dandified in his attire. He must have a wealth of funds, as he entered with a woman on each arm. Both were buxom blondes and both tittered unattractively as Gabe bowed over their hands.
Lady Kerr moved to stand beside Gabe, “Mr. Spencer, this is Lord Sheffield and his very good friend, Lady Kellings.”
Gabe bowed to the rotund Lord Sheffield. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord, my lady.” Gabe bent over Lady Kellings’ hand, but before he could pull away, she extended her slender fingers to rub them across his lips.
Taken aback by such a brazen gesture, Gabe missed the name of the blonde mistresses of the second gentleman. He sketched a brief bow, nonetheless. He did not fail to catch the name of the gentleman, however.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Jackson,” Gabe bowed to the short, slender man with orange hair.
Gabe then watched as the group was introduced to Mary. She was perfect, her character completely in place. Of course, she lived her actress persona more often than Gabe cared to contemplate.
Her lips curved seductively upward at something Lord Sheffield mumbled quietly to her and Gabe clenched his jaw. It was time to uncover the traitors here and take Mary away from this place entirely.