“Are ye ready?” Gabe pressed his lips to the side of Mary’s neck as she gazed at her reflection in her dressing table’s reflective glass, several days later.
The fluttering reawakening of burgeoning desire worked its way through her as Gabe continued to kiss a path up to the dangling pearl earring hanging from her ear.
She batted his hand away. “Naughty man,” she scolded. “I only just managed to finish putting myself back together from your last eager bout of lovemaking. I haven’t the time to do so again.”
He gazed at her reflection with a wicked grin. “Just once more, lass. I will make it quick. And I promise no’ te touch yer pretty hair.”
She clucked her tongue and winked. “Shame on you, Gabe. We have a busy evening and I cannot be late.”
His smile fled as he pushed away from her chair to pace her modestly appointed bedchamber in Charles’ second house in town.
“I donnae like this, Mary.”
She finished applying her powder and turned to face Gabe. “You have said as much before, Gabriel, but I am a spy, and this is my assignment. I must follow through.”
He rushed to her with exaggerated dramatic flair, falling to his knees and gripping her hands tightly in his. “Ach, Mary, donnae hurt me so! Donnae be a spy any longer. Flee with me! We can go te—”
Mary laughed. “I am not certain, but I think that might be treasonous.” She pulled her hands from his and rose to retrieve her long, emerald green silk scarf, then draped it over her shoulders. “I am going on this assignment, Gabe. All will be well. I am perfectly capable of handling myself, I assure you.”
He sighed and stood, leaning a hip against her dressing table and crossing his arms across his chest. “Verra well. Do ye have yer pistol?”
“In my reticule.”
“Yer knife?”
“You know very well that it is strapped to my thigh.”
His gaze heated. “Show me.”
She shook her finger at him. “For shame, Gabriel! Now dirty your face, for heaven’s sake. You are far too clean for a coachman.”
He moved to sit in her place at the dressing table, but something caught his eye and he hesitated.
“My God…” he said in wonder.
She followed his gaze and knew immediately what he’d seen, and she cursed herself for bringing it to the safe house, but she couldn’t resist. She’d missed it during her days on assignment.
Mary’s cheeks heated embarrassingly, high on her cheekbones. Goodness, displaying her body for men to see did not cause her to blush, but this did? How silly of her.
She turned her gaze away and busied herself with gazing in her tall mirror as he picked up an item from atop her chest of drawers.
“Ye still have this conch shell, Mary?” he asked quietly.
She could feel his gaze at her back, but she refused to return it. She knew what she would find there, but it oddly left her feeling afraid. Somehow her secrets seemed to be revealing themselves, suddenly splayed out in the open for him to see…the long-buried softness in her heart for the boy who had given her the gift and the man who had abandoned her, taking her crushed heart with him. And it terrified her.
Nervous anxiety coiled itself in her stomach, fluttering and wavering with uncertainty. She knew that he found her desirable but didn’t return her regard…her love. He hadn’t said so, and she daren’t broach he subject. It would scare him away, and now that she had him positively in her life, she couldn’t risk losing him. Again.
“How… Why? Ye’ve kept this all these years, Mary?”
She knew what he wished to hear from her, but she couldn’t. She just couldn’t say the words.
Spinning to face him and running her fingers along the long string of pearls at her neck, she forced an airy smile. “Yes, I have. I think it’s pretty. Now, will you please finish getting yourself ready?”
He very obviously wished to say more, his judicious gaze seemingly seeing through her veil of fear, but he wisely took a seat at her dressing table and began to apply oil to his hair and soot to his face. He was already attired accordingly in a worn, brown woollen coat and matching vest and breeches. Each article of clothing was appropriately scuffed and marked. He had spent the days since their return to London growing mutton chops specifically for his role at the ball.
He thought they looked rather dashing, but Mary preferred his face clean and—oh pooh. Who was she kidding? She thought him handsome no matter what his choice of facial hair. Handsome, muscled, bold, talented, kind, and oh, so arousing!
The past four days had been spent lying abed with him in one bout of lovemaking after another, with sleep and long, leisurely talks in between. She wished she could remain there with him forever, simply taking him over and over again.
She felt a heated flush begin under her layers of petticoats, chemise, corset, and green silk, and bit the inside of her cheek. Now was not the time to become distracted.
She scooped up her green, beaded reticule and slid her matching slippers on her feet.
Tonight would be simple. She had attended several balls in disguise and knew what was expected of her. This evening she was Miss Mary White. Actress and inveterate flirt.
“Success?” Gabe stood before her, his gaze hopeful, yet also full of pride. He was a dirty mess of a man, which was precisely the object.
Mary smiled at him. “Perfect.”
He bowed deeply to her. “Your carriage awaits. Shall I escort you, Miss White?”
“Why yes, kind coachman. Thank you.” She winked at him as she placed her gloved hand atop his dirty coat sleeve.
He led her through the corridors and down the stairs to the foyer. No one stood on guard at the door, so Gabe pulled it open before leading her down the steps and to their awaiting carriage.
Gratefully, the sky was clear and the night was cool, the lamps along the cobblestone street lending a deceptively peaceful ambiance to the otherwise perilous thoroughfares.
Gabe helped her into the carriage that sat awaiting them on the street, then climbed onto the perch, clasped the reins, and set it into motion. With each clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the loud rumble of the carriage’s wheels over stone, they drew closer to Maison Sheffield.
Mary gazed out the window and wondered what Gabe was thinking. What an odd notion, wondering what another was thinking. She knew he did not look kindly on her going on this assignment. But it must be done. Her identity as an actress must remain intact; she simply could not refuse attendance.
Another thought that had been troubling her since they had returned to London buzzed alarmingly through her mind once more. What am I to Gabriel? Was she his mistress? His lover? She supposed she should not trouble herself with such thoughts until they spoke of it. But what of when this evening—and their assignment—concluded? Would he expect her to abandon her position as an actress? Would he expect her to no longer interrogate men?
If she were, indeed, his mistress, she would see the validity of such an expectation. But what if this was merely a tryst? What if he bored of her and she was left to fend for herself? Did she wish to continue interrogating men?
She was no longer certain. While she enjoyed the thrill of being on stage, of taking on a role so unlike herself, of the undivided absorption of her audience, it would be difficult to leave. Taking suspects into her changing room backstage, however…well, she supposed the thrill of it was beginning to wane.
It was possible that she could discontinue her interrogation of men backstage and continue being an actress, but there would always be an expectation of her from her audience… Her name was known well enough among the gentlemen of the ton by now, that men would continue to approach her, expecting that she would give them a private performance. That obstacle was not too large to get over, however. It could be done.
But now was not the time to ruminate on anything. She must focus solely on her task.
She braced herself with one hand on the hanging straps as they rounded a turn. The carriage wheels rumbled over the cobblestoned streets, the bright glow of the lanterns passing by.
Soon, they slowed and rolled to a stop before Maison Sheffield. There was quite the crush, as they waited in line to reach the front doors. Nervousness roiled in Mary’s stomach, though she did not know why. Perhaps it was that she would be without Gabriel this evening, after having been with him for the past fortnight.
Ridiculous girl with insecure and doubtful thoughts, she admonished herself.
They made their way to the front of the line and one of the Sheffield servants opened her door, holding a gloved hand out to aid her descent of the carriage steps.
She thanked him and, without glancing behind her at Gabe, made her way up the grand stairs to Maison Sheffield. She pasted an airy smile upon her lips and stood waiting to address the receiving line. The foyer was filled with shuffling debutants, their simpering mamas, and proud, sniffling dandies. She saw none of the known traitors within the entry, though they were like to be found in the card room or ballroom. The card room was a quiet place in which they could converse, and the ballroom was the perfect location in which to blend in. But Mary would find them.
The air was thick with cloying perfume, masculine soaps, powders, oils, and the stench of too-hot bodies. It was nearly overwhelming in its strength.
Her turn came to greet Lord and Lady Sheffield, and she curtsied accordingly.
“Miss White!” Lord Sheffield wheezed before dabbing his glistening forehead with a handkerchief, evidently one of the many adding to the general stench. “So pleased you could come.”
“Thank you, Lord Sheffield.” Mary grinned back at him. “I am honoured to have been invited.”
“Do go on and enjoy yourself, my dear.”
He winked at her and she turned to follow the other guests toward the ballroom. As she turned her back, she heard Lady Sheffield’s strident voice. “How do you know Miss White?”
Mary felt like laughing at the thought of what the man must endure from his wife tonight. Sheffield certainly deserved every syllable of the reprimand, for he was a wicked man, indeed.
She finally reached the butler as he stood regally beside the ballroom doors.
“Your name, miss?”
“Miss Mary White,” she said.
The butler turned to announce over the din of the crowd, “Miss Mary White!”
A great number of the guests turned to watch her as she entered. She held her head high and kept her air of witlessness and sensuality about her as she strolled further into the room.
The crowd began to murmur, but she determinedly ignored it. She would naturally cause a stir. She rarely did anything in the public eye as Miss White, and it was expected that the members of the haute ton would be curious, put-off, or furious at her attendance.
She gratefully accepted a glass of champagne from a footman and took a hearty sip.
“Mary!” a familiar voice boomed.
She turned to see Lord Reddington and Mr. Jackson striding toward her.
She smiled, forcing her eyes to crinkle in the corners. They stopped before her and sketched neat bows. She dipped in a curtsey. “Why James, Mr. Jackson! How lovely to see you here this evening.”
“I was about to say the same thing,” Mr. Jackson said, straightening the lace cuff of his shirt beneath his coat sleeve. “Might I say how lovely you look this evening, Miss White? Quite in the stare of fashion!”
Mary slid her palms down the front of her shimmering green silk gown, the reticule tied to her right wrist weighing it down. “Thank you, Mr. Jackson. It is very kind of you to say.”
Reddington gripped her left hand and placed a kiss to its back. “The beauty of the morning sun’s gentle touch over a flowery meadow in spring pales in comparison to your radiating splendour, Mary.”
Mary’s lips split in a genuine smile, but she had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing at Reddington’s ham-fisted compliment. “A handsome sentiment, James.”
His chest puffed with pride. “Tell me you will grant me a waltz this evening, Mary.”
She shook her head regretfully. “I am afraid I am not dancing this evening.” She lifted her wrist into the air between them. “No dance card.”
“Ah, a shame indeed, for as graceful a woman as yourself. It would be like—”
“Good evening, Miss White,” the Marquess of Hale moved to stand among their small group, Lord Kerr close behind, his eyes glinting with menace.
Ah, the vile group was nearly all in attendance.
Mary curtsied. “Good evening, Lord Hale, Lord Kerr. I do hope you all had a pleasant journey from Eastbourne.”
“Indeed,” Lord Kerr took a gulp of dark liquid from his glass, his shrewd gaze locked on her features. “It was a shame you did not stay longer. As I understand it, you left in a hurry.”
Mary waved a hand through the air. “Oh, la! You know how lovers are. One moment they are eager for a little rough play, and the next they become timid. Poor man,” she pouted jestingly, “cowered nearly the entire journey to London! I had to give him his congé when we reached town, naturally. I cannot abide a man who does not know how to have a good time. It is such a shame, too, for I truly thought I might have had a good thing in being his mistress.” She winked at the small group of men around her. Despite her convincing lie, Lords Hale and Kerr still gazed at her with suspicion.
Mary’s stomach knotted, but she continued anyway. “I fear I must have broken his little heart, for I understand he has booked passage on a ship to the Americas.”
“What is this? Having a delicious conversation without—” Lord Boxton squeezed his shoulders between Mr. Jackson and Lord Hale. His eyebrows shot skyward, his eyes growing wide and possessive. “Mary!”
“Good evening, Tony.”
His gaze travelled brazenly over her body and his neck grew red from beneath his shirt collar. “I have a mind to spirit you away from here and—”
“Ah!” Lord Reddington interrupted, displeasure written plainly on his features. “Such an amusing anecdote.”
The others gazed at him in confusion.
“Tell me, Lord Kerr,” Mary broke the awkward silence, “is Lady Kerr in attendance this evening?”
He shook his head and took another sip of his drink. “I am afraid that Lady Kerr had much more pressing matters to attend to this evening.”
“I see. Do please send along my well wishes to her.”
He rolled his eyes but seemed to give her an odd head jiggle in acceptance.
A gentleman in a finely tailored green coat strode past, and Lord Hale halted him with a hand to his sleeve. “Wycliff!” he boomed.
The man turned, a woman on his arm, to face the group.
“Hale, always a pleasure.” He turned his gaze on Mary. “And who is this?”
Boxton hurried to make the introductions. “Wycliff, this is Miss Mary White. Mary, this is Sir Humphrey Wycliff.”
Mary curtseyed politely. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir Wycliff.”
Wycliff gestured to the woman on his arm. “This is my dance partner, Miss Lucille—”
Reddington eagerly leapt forward to point somewhere across the ballroom. “There is our friend. I wish to introduce you, Mary. Just a moment, I shall fetch him.” Reddington disappeared into the crowd.
“Lord knows it is not Pondridge,” Kerr murmured.
“Inebriated in the card room again,” Jackson scoffed.
A small gasp escaped Mary, but she disguised it in a laugh along with the others. Panic, swift and powerful raced through her. Lord Winning was the “friend” that Reddington wished her to meet.
Oh no, oh no, oh no! Her gaze darted about for an escape. If Frederick saw her, her cover would undoubtedly be blown. He knew her as one of his crofters’ daughters and from her friendship with Gabriel as children. Her identity was going to be compromised! Oh heavens, she could be killed this very night!
Suddenly the cloying scent in the ballroom was too much.
She fanned her face. “This is quite a crush! I believe I need some air. Please excuse me.”
Without waiting for a response, Mary spun on her heel, weaving her way through the sea of rainbow silks and cutaway coats toward the doors leading to the portico. Bursting into the fresh air, Mary gasped a great, long breath of the crisp night.
What was she to do now? She could not very well remain at the ball, for her identity as Miss White was paramount.
She must return to Gabriel and find Hydra.
Turning once more on her heel, she bounced, unladylike, off of a large, solid male chest.
“Oh, pardon me—” She stepped back to lift her gaze up to the man and was arrested at the sight.
Lord Boxton stood, his devouring, lascivious gaze boring menacingly into her. Her stomach quivered with fear, but she smiled, forcing it to reach her eyes.
“Hello, Tony. I apologize for my abruptness in leaving the ballroom. I had quite lost myself in the heat and required a reprieve. I appreciate your concern, but I feel much revived now.”
She made to move past him, but he caught her arm. “Have I told you, Mary, of my formidable temper?”
With a brittle smile she turned her gaze up into his threateningly and frighteningly lustful countenance. Mary knew that Boxton took pleasure in abusing women, and likely enjoyed them contrite and fearful. She would play along until they were in a more private setting and could defend herself, or at least until she could get away.
“You promised me one night with you, Mary.” His green gaze darkened as he spoke. “And I did not receive it.”
She stepped back, prepared for his attack. “Mr. Spencer swept me away so quickly, I scarcely had time to think!”
“Did he, indeed?” His grip on her arm tightened. “Shall we take a stroll in the gardens?”
She affected a quivering lip and nodded, allowing him to lead her off of the portico and onto the brightly lit garden path. They kept walking, past the light of the torches and lanterns, and into the shadows.
The night was dark and the garden was still. Even the night creatures seemed to understand the gravity of her circumstance and held their breath in wait.
Boxton roughly pushed her into the darkness behind a tall hedge and pounced at her, pressing his lips hard down on hers. Mary recoiled. He wanted her to fight back, to give him a challenge. She was most happy to oblige.
With a muffled thump, Mary slapped him across the face with her gloved hand. “You, sir, are entirely too forward.” She pressed her fingertips to her bottom lip. “Must you kiss me so hard? You cut my lip!”
His dark gaze heated as he spotted the drop of blood on her white gloves.
“You dare to tell me how to kiss you?” He brought his hand back and Mary cowered believably. With an evil laugh, he brought his palm hard down on her.
That is enough of that, Mary thought.
In a quick motion, she extended the palm of her hand outward, making contact with his nose and breaking it in a sickening crunch.
Boxton howled in pain, holding his bleeding nose with both hands.
Mary made to escape, but Boxton grabbed hold of her bodice with his blood-soaked hands. “You bitch!”
Tugging her back to him, he snarled, pulling at the low neck of her gown. Boxton yanked, tearing the fine green silk down the front, the loud rip of the delicate material absorbed by the air around them.
Irate, Mary used the pistol in her reticule as a bludgeon and aimed a hard knock to his head. But she missed, her heavy reticule bouncing harmlessly off his shoulder.
“Argh!” He bellowed. “Damn it, woman!”
He pulled the reticule from her wrist and tossed it behind him. “What the devil do you keep in there? Stones?”
“Yes,” she snapped. “To ward off vile men such as yourself.”
“Vile?” He growled. “You wish to see vile, do you, Mary?”
He reached for her once more, and Mary abandoned the act of the meek, helpless, and terrified female, and let her training and instincts take over. With all the force she could muster, Mary extended her arm out, her fingers stretched and stiff, and jabbed Boxton in the neck. He scarcely had time to choke when she lifted the heel of her palm into his already-broken nose.
He released a garbled cry, and as soon as he bent over in agony, Mary lifted her knee to his head, connecting with a hard thunk, and sending him tumbling backward.
Rolling to his back, the man groaned and cursed.
Mary stood over him and glared. “I will never share a bed with you, Boxton. Best you had learn to accept when a woman says ‘no.’”
With a swish of her skirts, Mary turned to walk away, but her skirt snagged, halting her.
In one violent tug, Boxton pulled her to the ground. The wind in her lungs left her in a whoosh, catching her off guard.
Before she could rise, he leapt atop her and sank his teeth deep into the flesh between her shoulder and neck. Mary screamed, the high notes echoing through the empty garden and blown away with the gentle wind.
“You like that, do you?” he asked, licking her blood from his lips.
Mary cringed, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. “You are evil, Boxton,” she whispered, her voice quavering.
She had quickly lost control of this situation and must regain her ground.
“Evil,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “Yes…”
He fisted the ends of her scarf in both hands and wrapped it once around her neck, then pulled.
Mary’s breath was immediately cut off. No!
She fought. With everything she had, she kicked, clawed, punched, scratched, pinched, jabbed…but he took it all. He hovered over her with stony, sadistic and lascivious serenity, his teeth bared in excitement and his erection jabbing into her thigh.
I must live, she thought desperately. I must tell Gabriel that I still love him…that I have always loved him. I cannot die now.
Inflicting pain wasn’t working. She must catch him off guard. She was running out of time.
She bucked high, throwing him off balance as he tumbled to his side.
Taking in deep gasps of air, she struggled to sit up.
In the distance, she thought she heard her name, but she blithely ignored it. This was her chance!
She lifted her torn skirts and quickly unsheathed her dagger. Then, she lunged. Boxton shouted his pain as she sliced him across the thigh. He threw his head back, and she took the opening, holding her bloodied blade to the underside of his neck.
He lifted a fist, and Mary nudged the blade deeper against his soft skin.
“You had better re-think that move, Boxton,” she warned.
Boxton swallowed, then winced at the pain from her blade, his eyes narrowed and filled with vitriol. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he replied.
“Oh, I believe I do.” Her heart thundered in her chest as she considered her options. The man must know by now that she was not a simple-minded actress. She had no choice but to bring him in to Hydra for questioning. “Now, you are going to come with me.”
Heavy footfalls came from behind her.
Bang! Bang!