Love and Let Spy Read online

  Copyright © 2014 by Shana Galen

  Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Alan Ayers

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  A Sneak Peek at Viscount of Vice

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For my daughter. I hope you grow up as smart, savvy, and strong as Bonde, and I hope all of your dreams come true.

  One

  Somewhere in Europe, 1816

  She crept down the corridor, back to the wall, straining to place the voices of the men. Somewhere a woman was crying, a dog barked, and a horse-drawn cart rattled by. The stench of urine and blood burned her nostrils, but she moved forward.

  Two men. French-speakers, though only one was a native speaker. The other…the accent sounded Turkish? She turned her head to locate the voices.

  Closed door.

  Room at the end of the hall.

  Three steps. Two. One.

  She paused outside, drawing her knife. She didn’t want to risk her pistol misfiring and left it tucked inside her coat, along with a stash of ball and powder. She was dressed as a man because the clothing was more practical and attracted less attention. She didn’t think she’d fool anyone who looked closely. And she didn’t care.

  A man inside the room—the Frenchman—spoke again, and her hand stilled on the door’s latch.

  “Reaper is dead,” she translated silently. “He took his life in prison.”

  News traveled quickly, though not accurately. The report she’d seen claimed Foncé had gained access to Reaper and slit his throat. The leader of the Maîtriser group didn’t tolerate failure. When Foncé realized she, an agent of his hated Barbican group, had tracked two of his men to this ramshackle flash ken, their lives would be forfeit as well. Perhaps that cold fact would be incentive for them to assist her in locating their leader.

  Or perhaps it would only make them more eager to kill her.

  Either way, the games were about to begin.

  She pulled her hand away from the door, stepped back, raised a booted foot, and kicked. The thin wooden door splintered and shot open with a loud crack. The men jumped up, but they didn’t move quickly enough. Her knife flew from her fingers, catching one man in the shoulder and pinning him to the wall behind him. He screamed while the other man fumbled for his pistol. She obligingly reached for hers. “I’ll kill you before you even pack your powder,” she said in French. “Do us both a favor and lower your pistol before I’m forced to shoot you.”

  “I don’t owe you any favors, Bonde.” The man holding the pistol sneered. He was called Tueur, and he was an assassin—one of Foncé’s best now that Reaper was dead. She wished she’d thrown the knife at him. They’d met before and, since he had been trying to kill her at the time, had not parted amicably.

  But she could let bygones…and all of that rubbish. “That’s Miss Bonde to you. Shall we have a little chat?”

  “No time today,” he said and threw the pistol. Bonde ducked, and the weapon clattered to the floor behind her. She reached for it, tucked it in her waistband, then whirled back around. Tueur had wasted no time. He waved as he raced across the room and climbed out the window.

  She uttered a most unladylike expletive, her body pulled between Tueur and the Turk. She couldn’t split in half—that was the disadvantage of working alone. Working with another agent—that was the disadvantage of a partner.

  She headed for the window, glancing at the Turk over her shoulder. A knife protruded from his neck. Tueur had made certain the other man wouldn’t talk. He’d also made her decision easy. She leaned out the window and spotted Tueur hanging from the faded awning of the shop below. He dropped to the ground and made a rude gesture.

  Bygones were, apparently, not bygone in Tueur’s opinion.

  She did a quick calculation then dove out the window, pulling her knees in so when she landed on the awning she would roll easily to the edge. She held her breath for the free fall and felt the air whoosh out of her when she hit the fabric.

  But she didn’t roll.

  She heard an awful ripping sound and reached out just in time to catch the edge of the awning before she fell through. Her feet dangled above the hard cobblestones as the material slipped through her fingers. With a sigh, she let go, dropped, and tumbled. The ground was hard, bruising her hip and shoulder. She hobbled to her feet and wiped her bloody hands on her trousers. Where was the dashed man? She glared left and then right.

  Unfortunately, he’d seen her and took off at a fast clip.

  She went after him, her hip protesting the movement. Red clouded her vision, and she realized her forehead was bleeding. She swiped the blood away and rounded a corner, emerging onto a busy avenue lined with carts and vendors. Men and women walked leisurely along the avenue, shopping on the lovely spring day. Bollocks! Again she’d lost him. And on a crowded street, no less.

  Bonde noted a statue and raised fountain standing in a nearby esplanade, and she dodged horses and carriages to reach the monument. She climbed up, hanging on by one arm, and peered down the busy street. He was gone…no—wait.

  There! He’d climbed into a Bath chair, which two men were hastily pulling away. She jumped down, searching for another chair for hire and realized Tueur had taken the last. She glanced about, her attention landing on a sporty gig. A footman waited beside the horse, presumably while the vehicle’s owner shopped for produce. Bonde ran for it, hopping up before the footman could protest. He stared at her dumbly for a moment, but when she snapped the reins, he grabbed for the horse’s bridle.

  “Sorry!” she said, straining to control the skittish animal. The horse tried to rear and then shot off. Fortunately, the beast chose the direction she wanted. Unfortunately, he was going much too fast for the crowded avenue. Men and women jumped out of the way as she struggled to gain the upper hand. The Bath chair was just ahead, but the horse bolted to the side before she could jerk him back. The gig’s wheel caught on the edge of a fruit stand, sending the vendor’s cart toppling over. Oranges and lemons tumbled into the street, and apples bounced in every direction. One bounced into the conveyance, and she caught it with a hand, took a bite, and snapped th
e reins.

  She was grinning. She had Tueur now. He yelled furiously for the men pulling his chair to go faster, but they couldn’t compete in a race with a horse. She gained ground until she finally pulled alongside the chair. “Ready for our chat now?” she yelled.

  “Go to the devil, Bonde!”

  “You first,” she muttered, steering the horse closer to the chair so the men pulling it were forced to move aside. Tueur didn’t wait for the inevitable. He rose and jumped from the chair, smashing onto the ground. She reined in the horse and jumped nimbly down, landing on her feet and running to grab Tueur before he could rise. She all but collided with a woman carrying an armful of flowers, and the woman tripped and went sprawling to the ground. Bonde spit a daffodil from her mouth and kept running. But the delay cost her. Tueur was up again and moving quickly toward a busy alleyway, where artists sold jewelry, paintings, and mementos. She pictured the city map in her mind. At the end of the alley was a canal. If Tueur reached the canal, he could jump on a vessel and she’d never catch him.

  She pushed two men out of the way and raced forward. Tueur saw her coming and began to jog. Some of the crowd saw them approach and parted, but others had to be thrust out of the way. Bonde jumped lithely over a stack of crates, wobbled, and regained her balance.

  Tueur was definitely headed for the canal. If she lost him, M would have her head. She sped up just as a young mother holding a little girl’s hand stepped out from behind a stall. With a yell, Bonde narrowly avoided them and crashed into a flower cart. Everything went dark and floral for a moment, and when she surfaced, this time spitting tulip petals from her mouth, the flower girl screamed obscenities. At least Bonde thought they were obscenities. Amidst the haze of petals and stems, she’d forgotten in which country she’d landed and the native language spoken. She pulled a rose from her hair, handed it to the woman, and arrowed for the canal.

  Tueur was already there, and she saw his dilemma immediately. No vessels. Bonde reached for her pistol. She had him.

  He saw her coming then looked back at the water. Then back at her. He took a step forward.

  “No!”

  But it was already too late. He took two steps back and ran. She reached the edge of the canal as the water splashed back down, mud from below churning up and darkening the already filthy waterway.

  “Come up. Swim, damn you,” she muttered. The ripples grew larger, and the water stilled. She stared at the place he’d gone under for a long moment, her gaze scanning the rest of the canal.

  Nothing moved.

  “Bollocks,” she said.

  “Hey!”

  Bonde turned to see a crowd of angry merchants and shoppers approaching. Some waved damaged goods, some waved fists, some didn’t have the courtesy to wave.

  “Bollocks,” she said again. There was nothing for it. She pulled off her cap, allowing her golden hair to spill down her back, and smiled prettily.

  Two

  London Season, 1816

  “I don’t care how beautiful or rich or bloody socially acceptable she is,” Dominic said, turning fiercely from the drawing-room mantel. “I am not marrying her.”

  “Sir, need I remind you that your mother is present?”

  The marchioness waved a hand. In her pale blue muslin morning gown, she seemed almost one of the furnishings in the drawing room, which had been done in blue and cream and a panoply of gilt and ormolu. “I have heard it all before,” his mother said. “One does not raise four sons without hearing a bit of the vulgar tongue.”

  Dominic gestured as if to say, See?

  “I do not give a bloody farthing,” the marquess said, standing and pointing at Dominic. “You will show your mother some respect.”

  Dominic refrained, just barely, from mentioning the contradiction inherent in his stepfather’s curse. The man had no sense of humor and would not appreciate the irony. He also had a selective memory. At the moment, he chose to forget that his wife possessed a somewhat less than savory past.

  Dominic wished he could forget.

  “My lord,” Dominic said, tamping down his fury from long habit, “I do not wish to marry. I have no obligation to produce an heir, as I have no lands or titles to pass on. There is no need—”

  “There is every need!” Lord Edgeberry boomed. Dominic clenched his fists to keep from using them. He was a grown man and did not enjoy being treated like a child. But he would tolerate it for his mother. “Your behavior is scandalous, and I’ll be damned if I stand by while you produce a passel of bastards who show up on my door, begging for money.”

  Dominic cut his gaze to his mother, and the marchioness hissed in a breath and shook her head at her eldest son, her eyes pleading for forbearance. “My lord,” she said, rising and taking her husband’s arm. “Might we speak in private for a moment?”

  Dominic turned his back on the room and faced the mantel, staring at the figure of a small porcelain shepherdess. She was a typical English beauty with flaxen hair, rosy cheeks, and huge blue eyes. Dominic hated the type. Behind him he heard his mother’s rapid whispers. Every few moments, he was able to discern one of her words. “Fatherless…Pride…Careful.”

  The door opened, and Carlisle, one of Dominic’s half brothers, entered. “Oops! Sorry.” He stepped back out just as quickly, but not before catching Dominic’s eye and giving his older brother a grimace.

  “No, no, Carlisle,” their mother said. “Your father and I will speak in the parlor. You go ahead.” And she tugged the marquess out of the room, leaving Carlisle little choice but to enter.

  “I’m not going to ask what that was about,” Carlisle said, “so you’ll have to volunteer the information.”

  Dominic couldn’t stop a smile. Carlisle was his youngest half brother and just out of school. At nineteen, he was not yet jaded by the world. But then again, why should he be? He was the son of a marquess, he was handsome with his blond hair and brown eyes, and he was wealthy. Nothing could touch him.

  “I’ll give you one guess,” Dominic said, lifting his teacup from the drawing-room side table. He’d always liked his youngest brother. With thirteen years between them, they were too far apart to be rivals.

  “The woman who showed up with the babe last week?”

  “Your father wants me to marry before I bring more shame on the family name.” He sipped the tepid tea. He’d not even had a chance to taste it before his stepfather launched into his tirade.

  Carlisle popped a tea cake into his mouth and reached for another. “Is marriage so bad?”

  “I don’t see you rushing into the parson’s mousetrap.”

  Carlisle held the tea cake in front of his chest like a shield. “I’m far too young. You’re an old man.”

  “Charming to the last,” Dominic retorted.

  “Was the babe yours?” Carlisle asked, his mouth full. Dominic rolled his eyes. The boy had no sense of decorum.

  “No.”

  “Whom do they want you to marry?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He seemed to consider as he reached for a dainty sandwich. “It might.”

  “A Miss Jane Bonde.”

  Carlisle dropped the sandwich, and it rolled under a chair. The boy ignored it. “And you refused?”

  “I don’t want to marry, and I certainly won’t marry some chit I haven’t even met.”

  “But you’ve seen her?”

  “I don’t think so.” Dominic avoided social events. He had nothing to say to the ton. He was well aware they looked down on him. He did not need to be reminded of it nightly.

  “That explains it then.” Carlisle reached for another sandwich.

  Dominic drank his tea. “You imply that if I laid eyes on her, I would change my mind.”

  “Probably not,” Carlisle mumbled around the bread. “But you’d think twice.”

  Dominic set his
teacup down. He was beginning to think it a good idea to escape while he had the chance. “I doubt we have the same taste in women.”

  “She is every man’s taste, I assure you. Are you leaving?”

  Dominic was halfway across the room. “Yes, but I must say, Carlisle, you have intrigued me. I might have to see this Miss Bonde for myself.”

  “There is a long line of men ahead of you.”

  Dominic opened the door. “Give Lord Edgeberry my regards.”

  “That ought to be a pleasant task,” Carlisle muttered. Dominic closed the door and started for the stairs. He hadn’t made it far before his mother stepped in front of him. She was petite, dark, and exotic with her Gypsy coloring. As far as Dominic knew, she was not of Gypsy blood, but she did nothing to dispel the rumors. He was a great deal taller than she. His father must have been a man of some height, for Dominic was a head taller than his stepfather and his three half brothers. But woe to the man or woman who equated height with power. Titania Griffyn—now Titania Houghton-Cleveborne, Marchioness of Edgeberry—was a force to be reckoned with.

  “A word, my darling son.” She gestured toward her boudoir, where she met with her closest friends, and set off, not waiting to see if he would follow.

  Dominic sighed and followed.

  ***

  Elsewhere in Mayfair

  It was never a simple matter to descend the facade of an edifice with no more assistance than that of the occasional ledge or outcropping that might be used in place of a hand- or foothold. Trying to accomplish such a feat while wearing a ball gown and the accompanying silk slippers made the task even more difficult. And, in Bonde’s opinion, it was an all but impossible commission when one was wearing gloves.

  But she was determined. And besides, she had to make a good showing. Poor Lady Keating—code name Butterfly—was expecting her to act as an example. Bonde lowered a foot, searching for purchase, found it, and moved down the wall of the gray stone mansion.

  “Tell me again why we must attempt this,” Butterfly said.

  “Because,” Bonde answered, trying to secure a handhold and floundering slightly. Show no fear. Show no fear. Her glove slipped, and she flailed, but she managed to regain her balance by grasping a hole in the limestone with her other hand. “At some crucial juncture you might need to make a quick exit, and there are times when a window is more accessible than a door.” She glanced down at the ground, still a good distance below her. Baron stood in the shadows under them, keeping watch and occasionally glancing up and frowning. “Baron, do I have the right of it?”