he next morning, Sebastian broke his fast in his customary fashion: close to dawn, alone, and with The Times ironed and laid out beside his plate. He forked up a bite of oeuf cocottes and chewed thoughtfully as his mind drifted from parliamentary matters and news of the world abroad.
To hell with everything ordinary. Today was no ordinary goddamn day. Today, everything had changed. The sun rising to break London’s bleak fog had seemed unnaturally bright. His coffee tasted better than it ever had. His chest felt lighter, and he couldn’t bloody well stop grinning like a fool.
Daisy loved him. And he loved her.
Yes, Christ help him, as sudden and strange and ill-advised as it seemed, he had found the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his days loving. His relationship with Daisy was cordial and easy. She possessed intelligence and determination and wit, all enhanced by a lively sense of humor. When he was irritable, she made him laugh. When he was arrogant, she subtly reminded him. When he reached out his hand, she took it.
She’d been tardy for dinner every bloody night, and he hadn’t even minded, although he was certain she kept him waiting by design. When she arrived, a teasing smile on her lips, resplendent in her evening finery, it was all he could do not to take her in his arms, carry her back up the staircase, and make love to her all night long.
She was like sunlight after a torrent of rain. Something about the woman was impossibly charming, and it wasn’t just her beauty. It was some indefinable quality he’d never known another female to possess. Or perhaps, it was her, Daisy who affected him so. She’d had him at war with himself, from the start, half of him wanting her desperately and the other half of him determined to keep her at arm’s length where she belonged.
But as the days had progressed, the words “pawn” and “annulment” had found themselves unceremoniously thrust into the recesses of his mind. He’d watched her, of course, and had sifted through her personal effects, not without an organ-piercing stab of guilt each time. He’d located her journal and had painstakingly read every entry. All he’d managed to discover was that she was thrilled to begin reading the contents of her library and that her penmanship was surprisingly slanted and imperfect.
He frowned at his newspaper, the words blurring before him. Aside from the deficiency of her handwriting, Daisy was exactly as he’d suspected: a kindhearted, vivacious young lady who’d been mistreated by her father and had been desperate to escape him and the decrepit lecher of a match he’d chosen for her.
The most pressing task at hand for him was amassing evidence of her innocence to provide to Carlisle. The sooner he could remove Daisy as a suspect, the better. Troubling questions remained, of course. Her connection to the Irish shop girl and Padraig McGuire, chief among them. He recognized that his love for her did not exculpate her. Of course, the hardened spy within him even had to acknowledge that there was a chance she was guilty as sin after all, and he had allowed his feelings to cloud his judgment.
Either way, there was only one conclusion to the situation in which he found himself. Daisy was either guilty or she was innocent, and Sebastian was either a fool or he wasn’t.
To that end, he would continue to follow leads and build a case for Carlisle. He had every hope that they’d bring him to the inevitable conclusion that Daisy had no parts of her father’s plotting with the Fenians. That the woman he was so bloody drawn to—the woman he’d fallen hopelessly in love with against his every instinct and all his years of training combined—had no more to do with dynamite plots than the queen herself.
“Pardon the interruption, Your Grace, but you’ve some correspondence this morning,” Giles interrupted, his tone faultlessly formal.
He lowered the neglected paper and acknowledged his butler, accepting the correspondence as though it was likely as harmless as a letter from a maiden aunt. Sebastian waited until Giles had discreetly resumed his place by the sideboard before tearing open the seal of the letter. His eyes scanned the familiar, brief scrawl, that old, worn knot resurging. His blood went cold.
The message was coded, its contents seemingly innocuous enough.
Would you care to meet for a morning ride? The skies look too ominous to wait until afternoon.
It was unsigned, but that hardly mattered. He knew the note’s author just as he knew he had a pair of hands and the sun glinted in the sky above him even though he couldn’t see it from where he sat.
Carlisle wanted to meet at once.
And nothing about a sudden summons from the Duke of Carlisle was ever a matter for rejoicing.
Dread, heavy and hard and unpalatable as hell, twisted in his gut. This brief idyll with Daisy was bound to be disrupted. But damn it if he hadn’t enjoyed every moment of it while it had lasted.
The devil, it seemed, would always collect his due. He may love Daisy so much that it made his chest physically ache, but he wasn’t free to pursue that love just yet. For now, he was bound by his honor, his word, his loyalty to the Crown, and his family legacy. He felt them all like steel manacles circling his wrists. Keeping him prisoner. From the moment he’d taken his vows, his life had ceased to be his own.
Everything had changed, but just the same, nothing had.
He folded the note in thirds, carefully keeping his expression bland for the sake of the footman and butler dancing attendance on him. He should have remained in Daisy’s chamber, her body sleek and soft and warm and naked in his arms. He could have woken her with his kiss and then slid his cock home inside her.
Instead, he had risen early and dressed in customary fashion, requesting the papers and his breakfast. He had done all this because despite the fact that he would like nothing more than to pretend as if he was free to love Daisy the way he wished and the way she deserved, he was not. And lingering in her bed only prolonged his own torture and inner torment.
Ah, but if only he had stayed, kissed her sweet lips, rolled her onto her back…
But no. He supposed the note would have found him anywhere. Still, it would have been a damn sight more pleasurable to have spent the morning sucking his wife’s pretty pink nipples than reading a piece in The Times about the Government of India and the Ameer of Cabul before running off to do Carlisle’s bidding. Sebastian slid the note into the pocket of his coat, resumed breakfast for several more bites, and then announced that he would need his mount saddled while he changed into riding dress.
Yes, it was time for the devil to collect his due.
The ride to Carlisle’s personal residence was chilly, made more miserable by a ceaseless damp that had descended upon the city. For such a summons as this, his instructions were to always rendezvous at Blayton House. As they traveled in the same circles and feigned friendship as often as possible, two dukes might quite easily and inconspicuously call upon each other. More of Carlisle’s hiding in plain sight, as it were.
It didn’t take long to reach Blayton House, and before he knew it, Sebastian was handing off his reins to a groom and being led deep into Carlisle’s inner sanctum by his forbidding, hoary-haired butler. Carlisle stood upon Sebastian’s entrance to his study.
“Trent.” Carlisle was the face of genial civility. “Fancy a drink?”
It was the role he played for the world—drunken lothario, hardened rake, lighthearted man about town. In truth, the Duke of Carlisle was an odd fish—severe, harsh, dark, and deadly. Sebastian had once witnessed him gut a man with his blade before calmly wiping it clean with a monogrammed handkerchief.
For some odd reason, the sight and scent of that long-ago moment returned to him now. France, ten years before, on the outskirts of Paris. They’d been on a mission to free Griffin, and they’d been beset by a small party of German soldiers. The odds had been against them—Sebastian and Carlisle against five—but they’d prevailed. Carlisle had been a savage, killing two of the Germans with his bare hands and a third with his knife. Sebastian had dispatched the other two. Strange, so strange, that he should recall that day just now.
The butler disappeared, the door clicked closed.
Sebastian faced his superior. “Will I need a drink for whatever reason you’ve ordered me here?”
“Two minutes,” the duke muttered, his expression turning as grim as a death mask.
It was highly unusual for Carlisle to reveal he had the capacity to experience emotions. Seeing this side of him disturbed Sebastian, who watched as his superior stalked to the sideboard, snatched up a decanter, and poured whisky into two glasses. Not even after killing the three Germans had Carlisle been this disjointed.
Sebastian extracted his pocket watch, heeding Carlisle’s warning that it would not be safe to speak freely until two full minutes had passed. He accepted the whisky the duke offered him, tilted back his head, and swallowed the contents in a fiery gulp. It burned a path straight to his gut.
He flicked another glance at his watch. “Two minutes has passed.”
“A bomb was discovered early this morning by a night constable,” Carlisle said, taking a hearty swallow of his own spirits before continuing. “It didn’t detonate, thank Christ. The poor sod saw a smoldering box and was foolish enough to extinguish the flame. Thanks to his foolishness, the residence of the lord mayor still stands.”
A desolate streak of despair snaked through him. They had heard whisperings from their operatives stationed in America for many months now that London was a target. The explosion at the armory in Salford had been but the beginning. The Fenian foe had been growing in numbers, power, and audacity. But until now, the threat had seemed nothing more than that—a threat to be monitored and obliterated before it manifested itself in far more dangerous means than chattering amongst spies, ebullient rallies, and incendiary articles. London, the League had been sure, would be far too risky of a target for the Fenians to pursue.
It would seem that was a grave fallacy.
At long last, their greatest fear had become a reality in the heart of London.
“Jesus,” he said slowly, passing a hand over his face. The whisky had begun its pleasant, detached warming of his senses, but it did nothing to dull the urgency of the matter facing them. Griffin’s warning of the day before churned through him: the bloody submarine. This is war. Fuck. “What information do you have?”
“Not much at this juncture. The constable took the box to Bow Lane station. There was almost forty pounds of gunpowder filling the damn thing, along with some foreign newspapers and two addresses, one in London and another in Liverpool.” Carlisle stalked back to the sideboard, slamming his half-full whisky glass on the carved mahogany with such force that Sebastian was shocked it hadn’t shattered. “Our men are investigating the addresses as we speak. If the constable had not walked by when he did, the bomb would have exploded. He’s bloody fortunate he wasn’t killed. Another thirty seconds, perhaps, and he would have been.”
Forty pounds of gunpowder. Holy God. The bastards who had fashioned the bomb had intended to cause a great deal of destruction. They needed to be stopped by whatever means necessary and as quickly as possible.
A sickening sense of inevitability slid home inside him. He thought of Daisy, then, and how he’d allowed himself to believe that he could actually be free of the burden of this life and all its duties and encumbrances. Griffin had been right. This was war, damn it, and the enemy had infiltrated London, prepared to maim and kill as many innocents as possible. How could he possibly leave the League now, in such a time of need?
Had he imagined that he could ever leave this life? That he could simply be a man in love with a woman? That he could retire to Thornsby Hall and raise golden-haired babies with Daisy? In the span of an hour, everything had changed. A bomb had been set. Lives were in jeopardy. This was bigger than all of them. Bigger than his own selfish desires.
He knew what he must do.
He stiffened in his seat. “How can I be of service?”
“The Home Office wants you in Liverpool immediately.” Carlisle’s answer was quick, decisive. He’d likely spent the dawn hours crafting his strategy.
“Why Liverpool?” he asked, recognizing that such an assignment would take him from Daisy when the last thing in the world he wanted to do was leave her side, especially with so much unfinished business between them. Just last night, she had told him she loved him. He needed to tell her the truth, to beg her forgiveness.
But first, he had an oath to uphold.
And he would loyally uphold that oath until he met his end or until he was relieved of his duties, whichever came first. The last fortnight aside, he was capable of thinking and acting like a rational, loyal subject of the Queen. Like a man who had been tasked with defending England and her people from all supposed threats, whether or not they happened to be lovely, golden-haired, luscious-lipped sirens who smelled of vanilla and bergamot.
Carlisle’s gaze was on him, hard and assessing. “Liverpool is where Vanreid just spent a great deal of time. We suspect him of bringing supplies and funds to aid the Fenians already planted in England. The address inside the box could have been planted to mislead us, or it could be a valuable asset to our cause. Either way, we need one of our best men to be our eyes and ears there for the next month at least. If there is a dynamite ring based in Liverpool we will run them to bloody ground before they can set one more bomb.”
Sebastian nodded. Vanreid again. Why could Carlisle not accept that Vanreid, a corpulent animal who had beaten his own daughter and attempted to marry her off to an aging reprobate, was the source of the evil they wanted to defeat? That Daisy had no part in it? That she was an innocent victim who deserved far more than a false marriage to a man who had done nothing but deceive her from the day he’d met her? For his part in this travesty, Sebastian could not keep his gorge from rising each time he thought of it.
But his was not to question. He owed his loyalty to the League and to his country first, regardless of how unpalatable he found his present task. “I’ll need to inform Daisy of my plans.”
“No.” Carlisle stalked forward again, dark as a thundercloud. “You will inform her of nothing. Her part in this plot remains unclear, but she is not to be trusted. Indeed, you must not even think of her as your wife. She is a means to an end. Nothing more. Am I understood, Trent?”
The words tumbled about in his mind, settled into his veins, cold as winter’s ice. A means to an end. Nothing. He saw her face, lovely and expressive. Thought of the way she came alive in his arms, all innocent fire. Heard her words. I love you. She had slipped past his battlements and crept beneath his skin, and he could never do what Carlisle asked. Not any longer.
For as long as he lived, the taste of her—sweet, wild, delicious—would remain with him. Some long-overlooked restlessness inside him hungered for her. He could kiss her senseless on a thousand nights under a hundred different moons, and he would still want her more than he had the night before.
She was not—could never again be—just a means to an end.
“She is an innocent in this, Carlisle.” Sebastian met him halfway, unafraid and unapologetic. Yes, he had a duty but he also had a mind of his own, and everything in him told him that Daisy was not a part of whatever evil her father sowed. Maybe it was what he wanted to believe. Something had changed for him from the moment he’d met her, and it left him questioning everything: his loyalty, his oath, the League, his instincts, his own bloody honor.
Everything.
The duke considered him. “You’ve been bedding her against my orders, then.”
It was not a question, but a statement. Rage swarmed through him to hear Carlisle speak so cavalierly of her, as if she were no better than a tavern doxy. He clenched his fists at his sides to keep from smashing one of them into his superior’s jaw. “Go to hell.”
“Jesus.” Carlisle stared at him, his expression for once undisguised. It was pure, unadulterated disgust. “I never would have expected it of you, Trent.”
He didn’t wish to discuss Daisy with anyone, and especially not the Duke of Carlisle. It felt like a betrayal of her. “Goddamn you, Carlisle, the League doesn’t own my cock, and I’ll do with it what I like. Furthermore, I swear to you that I have uncovered nothing to suggest she has even an inkling of the Fenian plots. She cannot abide by her father, who beat her and wanted to marry her off to Breckly despite her own vehement objections.”
“That is what she wants you to believe. I daresay this wouldn’t be the first time a good man has fallen prey to a traitorous cunny.” Carlisle snorted. “Certainly won’t be the last.”
He had never longed to thrash a man to within an inch of his life more. Sebastian took a menacing step forward. “Do not dare to disparage her in my presence again.”
Carlisle met him halfway. They squared off, boot to boot, of a height with each other. Sebastian was a bit leaner than Carlisle, but he was sure he could win handily in a bout of fisticuffs.
“Push me at your peril, Trent,” Carlisle warned, his tone soft yet somehow as harsh as a whip. “Forget whatever spell she’s cast upon you with her wiles. We have far more important tasks at hand. More bombs will be fashioned and lit in the streets. They’ve already blown apart a building and killed a child. Innocent lives will be taken unless we act, goddamn it.”
Yes, damn it all to hell. Sebastian took a breath, his superior’s stern admonition recalling the stakes to him. Dynamite. Death and destruction. So many lives were in danger. How many more innocents would shed their blood and lives at the hands of these monsters unless they were stopped? He had sworn to defend his country, and regardless of the way he felt for Daisy, he had to stay true to his oath.
“Liverpool,” Sebastian muttered, flexing his hands. He would not beat Carlisle senseless. Not today. Another day, perhaps. For now, there remained a different sort of war to fight.
“Yes.” Carlisle’s eyes blazed with something akin to madness. “I need you in Liverpool. I need you clearheaded and alert. You’ve always been one of the best, Trent, and we can’t afford to lose you now.”
He would go, though the notion left him cold and hollow. Curious feeling, that. For the entirety of his years serving in the League, only one other mission had given him pause. And that one had been marrying Daisy Vanreid.
“You’ll not lose me,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll uphold my duty to the end. I’ll travel to Hades if the League but asks, and you know it.”
Carlisle gave him a fleeting smile. “Not Hades just yet, Trent. But you must leave at once.”
At once. The words echoed through him, unwanted as ice going down his spine. “I’m to leave now?”
He thought of Daisy, curled on her side, naked beneath the bedclothes, warm and sweet-smelling. She loved him. He loved her. And now, he would have to leave her as if she meant less than nothing to him.
Carlisle nodded. “I trust it won’t be a problem. You cannot tell Miss Vanreid where you’re going or for how long you’ll be gone. She isn’t to be trusted. You will send her a note advising her that a matter on one of your estates requires your intervention.”
He wanted to argue that Daisy was no longer Miss Vanreid. He was proud to give her his name, to blanket her in the protection of his family. She was Daisy Trent now, and she belonged with him, at his side. But how could he even claim her when he was about to abandon her, to leave her with a note and nothing more?
The notion left him cold. His mouth went dry. He didn’t want to do this. Not today, not ever. No part of him wanted to leave Daisy behind. But he was torn as ever between his duty and the woman he’d inexplicably come to love.
What were more lies in a steadily growing sea of them?
“A matter on one of my estates?”
“Cholera,” Carlisle bit out. “Tell her she must remain in London for her own safety. Everything you need will be waiting for you at the rendezvous point in Cheapside. When you arrive in Liverpool, send me a telegram telling me the weather is fair. I’ll join you there as soon as I’m able.”
Sebastian nodded. This was a role he had played before, and perhaps all too well. Being a spy was in his blood. He could do anything he must. Would do anything he must. Being nearly burned alive hadn’t been enough. Why stop now? Indeed, why stop when there were others, far more vulnerable than he, to be protected? Daisy included. Perhaps this would be the way he could finally prove to Carlisle that she had nothing at all to do with the Fenians or their plots.
“I’ll do as you ask,” he said finally, though he still refused to be the first to take a step in retreat. Sebastian Fairmont, Duke of Trent, did not fall back from a challenge, and neither did he step away from his oaths and his duty. Sworn to protect, at all costs. He had known that the day may come when he would have to sacrifice his own happiness for the greater good.
This was that day.
And suddenly, the day was grim, and nothing was as it had seemed.
Carlisle, as it happened, was a man who knew when to switch tactics. He would’ve made a bloody brilliant general. He sidestepped Sebastian and stalked back to the sideboard, hands clasped behind his back as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “Good man, Trent,” he called over his shoulder.
Sebastian still itched to hit him. He needed to leave the chamber before he did something foolish, like charge his superior and feed him his irritatingly even teeth. “Your Grace,” he said instead, keeping his voice carefully modulated with a blend of respect and formality. Not even Carlisle could fault him. “I will take my leave.”
“Do, Trent.” The duke called dismissively over his shoulder. “Get whatever you require, and hie yourself to Liverpool at once.”
Grinding his teeth against a further, most unwise retort, Sebastian spun on his heel and strode to the door of Carlisle’s study. Putting space between himself and the duke was essential. Too much longer in the heartless bastard’s presence would nullify the remaining shreds of honor and dignity to which he currently clung.
His hand hovered over the filigree knob when Carlisle’s voice stopped him.
“Oh, and Trent? Do yourself a favor when you reach Liverpool. Find a whore and fuck her raw. You can thank me later.”
There went the last thread of his sanity, clipped like a scissors attacking a fine embroidery thread. Snip. He was about to come undone. To explode as surely as the dynamite they chased. But no. He would not. Carlisle loved to goad. To push a man to the edge of reason and then boot him off the ledge.
Sebastian wouldn’t fall into his trap. He forced out a breath, controlled himself. “Go to hell, Carlisle,” he threw back with a calm he little felt.
Growling another feral curse, he tore open the door like the savage roaring to life within and slammed it behind him. Still, the small show of violence wasn’t enough. He would have to leave Daisy behind today. And Jesus Christ, something within him wasn’t sure if he could.
He rode away with an aggression that matched the roiling fury inside. Duty called. He had an allegiance to his country and his queen, and that far outweighed the selfish whims of the human heart.
Nothing mattered but this mission. Not what he wanted, not the indelible connection he felt to the woman he’d married, and certainly not his own needs. He had broken the cardinal rule of the spy and had allowed himself to forget he’d been playing a role, that the pleasure of his days with a pawn had been manufactured and temporary.
Time seemed to pass in a blink, and he was back where he’d begun, his imposing town home presiding over him, mocking him. So many deceptions had built that home. And he was yet another duke living a life of secrets, a life that would never be his own.
He knew a deep pang of resentment at the realization before he banished it. He had no right to feel as if he was owed anything, for he had known what being a member of the League would entail when he’d sworn his oath. He’d forfeited the right to make his own choices. He did what the League ordered. He protected the Crown and the people at all costs.
He did not, damn it all, put all his years of training and loyalty in jeopardy for the sake of one golden-haired American woman, even if his stubborn heart loved her, and even if she made him laugh and even if being in her presence reminded him of the life he wanted, the one that was just beyond his grasp. He couldn’t be selfish now, even if every part of him wanted to tell Carlisle to go to the devil so that he could stay right where he was, familiarizing himself with the lovely enigma he’d married.
No, it wasn’t meant to be.
Perhaps Daisy wasn’t meant to be, and he’d only been fooling himself to imagine this would end any differently. With grim intention, he handed off his reins to a groom. He would return to his chamber, write a note to Daisy, and leave before she even knew he’d gone. In the end, a clean break would be easier for them both. Far preferable, it seemed, than facing her and delivering a protracted lie. Carlisle could bloody well stuff his cholera nonsense up his meddling arse.
Love and duty didn’t bloody well mix, and he was hopelessly adrift.