Chapter One
Fall 1811
Diana Oakford stood at the low table in her kitchen, binding bundles of plants with twine. She hummed as she did so, keeping a rhythm that made the work go by steadily. She liked the practice, actually. It cleared her mind, doing this repetitive thing.
It kept her from thinking too much about painful subjects that were best left unpondered. Subjects that would likely drop her to her knees if she allowed them to haunt her. She pushed even the hint of them aside now as she worked and refocused herself on the task at hand.
She became so lost in the act that she jumped when there was a light knock at the door she’d left open behind her.
She pivoted and gasped as she found that her visitor was none other than the Earl of Stalwood. Her hands shook as she set her herbs down and stared at him. How well she knew him and how little at the same time. The man had been an old friend of her father and had come in and out of their home for as long as she could remember. But he was also the spymaster for the War Department, as secretive as he could be kind. A man who had taken her father away on more than one occasion until one horrible day when she’d been told he would never return again.
She hadn’t seen Stalwood since the private memorial service for her father in London more than six months before. Seeing him now brought back a rush of painful emotions that she fought to rein in before she spoke.
“My lord,” she managed to squeak out as she moved toward him. “I-I did not expect you.”
He inclined his head. “Perhaps I should have sent word of my impending arrival,” he said. “To be honest, I feared you would not receive me if you knew my intentions. I feared a great many other things, as well.”
She wrinkled her brow at his cryptic remark and then motioned him into her kitchen. “I would not turn a friend of my father away. Please, do come in. I’m afraid I can only offer you a seat at my kitchen table, for I do not have the fires lit in the parlor.”
“That will be more than enough,” he reassured her as he entered the room and took a seat at the table where she’d been working. She hustled to move the bound piles of herbs aside and he smiled up at her. “You are like him.”
She hesitated as she turned away. “Mmmm. Not exactly like,” she said. “May I get you some tea?”
“Yes,” he said, and was silent for a few moments as she stirred the fire and swung the heavy pot of water over the flame. She felt his eyes on her, though. Felt him watching her. Her stomach coiled in anticipation of whatever he would say next. “I need your help, Diana.”
She froze in her place, staring into the dancing flames for a long moment before she faced him at last. His expression was impassive and unreadable. So like her father. Spies were like that. She had always hated not knowing what was in Papa’s heart. Not being able to see if he shared her pain when there was loss or damage in their lives.
It had always made her feel so very alone.
“My help,” she repeated softly, unable to keep the tremble from her voice.
He nodded slowly. “Yes. We have an injured spy. Badly hurt in the field some time ago. We’ve been fighting as hard as we can, but he has not healed as fully as we’d like. We need a better healer.”
“You have not yet found a replacement for my father as surgeon?” she asked, folding her arms though that wasn’t any kind of barrier to what this man’s words inspired in her.
Stalwood’s expression flickered, and for half a second she saw all his grief. “No,” he said, emotions gone again. “There will never be any replacing him, I fear. The men who trained under him are good, of course, but they are only shadows of him. I cannot reach out to anyone outside our circles for fear they would be put in danger by our secrets. Or would not understand the delicacies of working with spies.”
She lifted her chin. “And you think I do?”
“I know you do.”
She flinched and turned back to the fire. She wrapped a cloth around the heavy kettle and poured it out into the more delicate teapot slowly.
“He needs hiding, too,” Stalwood continued, his words in a rush like he was trying to keep her from fully digesting them.
Of course she did. They were shocking words and Diana almost laughed at the ridiculousness of this conversation. “Hiding,” she repeated, letting the word roll from her tongue. “So he is in danger. He is danger.”
Stalwood bobbed his head once. “Yes.” His voice was soft but firm.
“And you’ve come to me, despite all that. Despite what that kind of danger has cost me.” He flinched and so did she. This man didn’t know the half of it. “Why?”
Stalwood took a long breath as she poured his tea at last. Only when she’d set the pot down did he say, “Because this man was injured the same day your father died. They were together.”
Diana’s ears began to ring and she sat down hard in the chair across from Stalwood. She gripped her hands into fists against the tabletop and stared at him. She knew so little of her father’s death. Only that he’d died in the field. Only that she would never see him again or hear his heavy footsteps on the stair.
She longed to know more. She feared it too. “My father was with someone else?”
Stalwood shifted. “Yes,” he said softly.
“I have never asked you for details,” she said, dropping her chin so she would not have to look at him. “But I want them. You are asking me to endanger myself, I want to know how.”
“I can give you some information,” he said after a long and heavy pause. “Your father went against orders to help this man. He was…he was investigating a traitor from within. It went very wrong. My spy was badly hurt and many servants and your father were killed.”
Her stomach turned. Her father had made a life out of saving the lives of those in service to their king. And now to hear that one of them had betrayed her father? Killed him?
She wanted to scream. She wanted to break everything around her. She wanted to find the man who had killed her father and she wanted to destroy him as he had destroyed her.
Instead, she glared at Stalwood. “How do you know the man who was injured was not the betrayer, himself?”
“He isn’t.” Stalwood shook his head. “We’ve extensively researched. And I know him. He is not the one.”
“Who is he?” she asked.
Stalwood cleared his throat. “When I say his name, it is with the express understanding that this will never leave this home. Never leave your lips.”
“Am I being indoctrinated as one of your spies, my lord?” she asked.
He shrugged. “In a way, yes. Am I clear on the subject?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“It is the Duke of Willowby.”
Her lips parted. “A duke. Do you mean the Undercover Duke?”
Stalwood drew back in surprise. “You know of him?”
“My father spoke of him by that nickname sometimes,” she said. “Never by his formal title or his given name. I knew nothing more than that. And that Papa cared for the man.”
Stalwood was quiet, and she knew he was letting her ponder the information before he said, “Does that mean you will help Willowby?”
She straightened and glared at him. “As I said before, this business of yours, of his, it has taken more than enough from me. More than you can imagine.”
“I know that, Diana,” Stalwood said. “And I hope you know that I would not ask this of you unless we had a dire need.”
Diana pushed to her feet and walked away from him, breathing in the fragrant scent of herbs that always filled her kitchen. He was manipulating her, of course. As much as she liked Stalwood, it was in his nature as a spy to do so. To get what he wanted.
Worse, it was working, no matter how she recognized the truth of it. She thought of her father, dead now for half a year. She knew what he’d say if he were here. She could almost hear him, whispering to her in that voice she hadn’t heard in months.
He would talk to her about honor and courage. About duty. Always duty, above all else.
She bent her head. “Very well,” she said on a sigh. “Bring him here, then.”
Stalwood rose behind her and she faced him. He looked different now. Like he was past the gentleness required to get her agreement. Now she was one of his soldiers and he was in charge.
“London would be better,” he said. “We’re still investigating, and I can place guards to ensure your safety with more ease there.”
She pressed her lips together in irritation. She didn’t want to be in London. Not this time of year. But there seemed to be no choice.
“Fine,” she said. “But at my father’s home there. My herb garden is a necessity I cannot deny myself.”
He seemed to consider the request and then nodded. “Very well. No one will suspect he is there, for certain. That could work out very well. How long will it take you to get there?”
She looked around, already making mental lists of what she would need to do and gather. “A week at most,” she said. “I could be there Thursday next.”
“Excellent. I will be certain you have what you need there. Will you have servants to contend with? We’ll need an explanation for Willowby’s arrival.”
She shook her head. “I do not keep a servant. I can manage myself well enough.”
Stalwood’s brow wrinkled as if he did not understand. Of course he would not. Men like him had a dozen servants. This duke would probably expect white-gloved treatment too.
She sighed at the thought.
“I will make sure you have a driver. Safe and vetted by my department. He will take you to London and be at your disposal there. If you want no one else, I will not interfere. The fewer people involved in this situation, the better.”
She nodded. “I agree.”
“Then I shall leave you to your readying. With my thanks,” he said, moving toward the door where he had entered less than half an hour before.
“Stalwood,” she said before he could leave her.
He turned. “Yes?”
“You will find whoever is responsible for my father’s death.”
His expression softened a bit. “I will do everything in my power, my dear. Everything in my power.”
“Good day,” she whispered past a suddenly thick throat. He tipped his hat to her and then he was gone, leaving her alone to think of what she had agreed to.
And ponder what a terrible mistake it would likely turn out to be.
Lucas shifted as the carriage turned and he was rocked against the wall. Every muscle in his body protested with screaming pain and he gripped his fists against the leather carriage seat to keep from crying out.
How he hated being injured. Being weak. How he hated that it all felt so commonplace to him now. Pain was just part of life.
The carriage came to a stop and he looked out the window as the servants began to move to help him. It was a small cottage that they’d come to. One that looked like every other cottage in The Hale, a part of London he’d never been to before. He knew all the worst parts through his job, and the best thanks to his upbringing.
He hated them both equally. But this place was suspended somewhere in between. Not too high and mighty, but neat and tidy, well maintained. Anonymous.
The door opened and the men Stalwood had tasked with helping him appeared. Their faces were grim as one said, “Ready, Your Grace?”
Lucas winced at both the recognition of the pain about to come and the title that was used to address him. “Yes,” he ground out, his voice rough as he reached out to steady himself on waiting arms. He staggered forward, trying in vain to keep his grunts of agony in as he was helped down.
The men looked away as they guided him up the stairs to the cottage door. They were spies, like he was, sent to do this menial task because they were the only ones to be trusted with the secret of his location. He knew what they saw when they looked at him: their future. And it wasn’t one they wanted, so they distanced themselves.
The door to the cottage was already open and the men helped him in. They didn’t hesitate as they all but carried him up another short flight of stairs and down a hall to an open door. Lucas had to believe this had all been prearranged. He did not yet even know who it was who would be taking care of him during his time here. Stalwood had said a healer, but nothing more.
A healer. Internally, he scoffed. He’d been poked and prodded and tortured by many a man who called himself that. The amount of healing that had followed was laughable. He was broken, perhaps irretrievably, and that sent a wash of rage and pain through him more powerful than any caused by the physical.
“Let me go,” he snapped, staggering from the arms of those helping him and all but collapsing against the edge of the bed.
The men seemed unmoved by his ill humor. All but one left him there. The last was named Simmons. Lucas glared at him. He’d trained this particular pup years ago, and now the boy stared at him like he was a dotard, lost to his youth and usefulness.
“Is there anything I can do?” Simmons asked, all that pity heavy in his mournful tone.
“No,” Lucas said through clenched teeth as he turned his face. “Just get out.”
“Well, that is a pretty way to talk to someone who is helping you!”
Lucas turned at the sharp, feminine voice that had said those harsh words. There, standing in the doorway, staring at him like he was a monster, was a woman. Not just a woman, a goddess, it would seem. She had dark hair with deep red highlights, a finely shaped face and full lips. Her eyes were the most spectacular green he had ever seen. Like jade stolen from faraway lands that he could only dream of now.
At this moment, those green eyes were narrowed and filled with anger as she folded her arms and shook her head. Her censure made him feel a strange sense of…shame. An odd sensation he rarely experienced. He’d cut that away a long time ago.
“Mr. Simmons, is it not?” she asked, turning to the other man in the room.
“Yes, miss,” Simmons said, and his gaze flitted over their companion. Lucas recognized the interest that lit in his eyes. The same he felt in his own belly.
Only the younger man likely had a better chance than he did in his current state.
“Thank you for your help. I believe I can handle the situation from here. Please send word to Lord Stalwood that we are settled.”
Simmons glanced at Lucas and then back to the woman. “Of course, miss. I will be one of the guards rotating here. If you have any trouble, if you need anything, put a candle in the front window and I will come at once.”
The young woman nodded, and seemed oblivious to Simmons’ regard as she motioned him toward the hallway. “I appreciate that kindness. Good day.”
Simmons shrugged ever so slightly and left. Once he was gone, the young woman turned toward Lucas, those sharp eyes still filled with slight disgust and judgment.
“Hello,” she said, stepping into the room. “I trust the room will be comfortable, even if it does not meet your standards.”
Lucas leaned on the bed with his undamaged arm, mostly because he was not entirely certain he could stay upright on his own. “I have no standards, I’m afraid. Ask anyone in my acquaintance.”
Her lips pursed in what seemed like annoyance at his quip and she moved toward him. “Let me help you.”
He recoiled as she reached out. “I can get myself into the bed.”
Her brow wrinkled, and when her gaze swept over him, he felt her judgment even more powerfully. She glanced at his face and shrugged. “So you say. Then I shall let you get settled on your own if that is your choice at present. I will return in an hour to bring you some food.”
She said nothing else, nor did she wait for his answer to her statement. She merely turned on her heel and marched from the room, tugging the door behind herself as she left.
When she was gone, Lucas collapsed against the mattress, too exhausted and pained to even try to remove his boots. He had no idea who the lady was, nor her role in the next few weeks of his life. Perhaps she was the healer’s wife or daughter. Perhaps she was a servant. He supposed he would find out soon enough.
Whatever the answer, her presence, as lovely as it was, did not change the facts of his life. He did not want to be here, and he was going to do everything in his power to get away from this place as soon as possible.