Love and Let Spy Page 10

  She jumped as though startled. “No. Step back,” she hissed.

  He shrugged, but he didn’t step back. Compared to the stink of the river, she smelled sweet and fresh. He liked the way one tendril of hair curled about her jawline. Since he was at a level with the window, he peered in as well. “No one inside,” he said.

  “I can see that.” Again, staying in the shadows, she made her way to the door. It faced the river and was not in shadow, and she paused for several moments before moving into the open. When she did, it was lightning quick. She stepped out, tried the door, found it locked, and slid back into the darkness before he had even thought about moving.

  “Locked.” Her breathing was more rapid now. “Padlock. I could break it, but I don’t have time, nor do I relish being exposed as I do so.”

  “Now we go home?”

  “Now we go in through a window.”

  “I bloody knew you were going to say that.” The windows were small and square. She could fit inside, but he would have a more difficult time.

  “Feel free to return home at any time.” She moved back to the window they’d stood beside. He could see the marks from their hands on the dirty windowpane. She stood on tiptoe again and pushed at the glass. “It’s latched, but the latch isn’t very secure.” She pushed on it, but she didn’t have the angle to do any damage.

  “Want me to try?”

  “Can you break the latch without breaking the glass?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She pursed her lips and considered. In the distance, he heard the sound of men’s voices. He couldn’t tell if it was coming from the river or the road, but he had the feeling they were headed this way.

  “Lift me,” she said.

  He raised his brows. “Pick you up?”

  “Yes. Hoist me up, and I’ll break the latch. Then I’ll push the window in, and you can push me through.”

  He considered refusing her, but she would only find another way. And then there was something appealing about being given permission to touch her. “Come here.”

  She stood in front of him, facing the window, and he hesitated only a moment before putting his hands on her waist. He had to adjust his hold once he was through the folds of the cape, but when he had her securely, he lifted her. She was more solid than she looked—not heavy, but not light. He braced a knee against the building, while she gave the window a firm tap from the palm of the hand. She tapped it again, and it swung free, closing again. “I have it. Can you raise me a bit higher? I think I can make it through.”

  But as he lifted her higher, her cape caught on a splinter or nail, and she had to tug it free. “Just a moment.” He set her down and watched as she unfastened the cape and tossed it into a shadow. She’d tied up her skirts, and a long stretch of white leg was visible before the skirts covered her thighs. She wore silk stockings with silk garters. She’d ruin them when she climbed through the window, and for some reason, he thought that a pity.

  “Done ogling me?”

  “I wasn’t—” Oh, why deny it? “For the moment. Turn.”

  She did so, obediently, and he lifted her to the window. She rested her chest against it and shook her head. “A bit higher.”

  He adjusted his grip, lowering it to her rounded hips and the edge of her buttocks. With a push, she scrambled over. But not before he had a flash of her white bottom. He swallowed, willing himself not to return to the image now. This was not the place for it. The top of her head appeared on the other side of the window.

  “Coming?”

  With a grunt, he hoisted himself up. Without anyone to give him a push, he had to exert a great deal more strength, but he managed it and slid through soundlessly.

  “Shh!”

  Apparently, she didn’t agree. He had the urge to take the flat of his palm and lay it against those firm white cheeks of her bottom. Of course, if he touched that skin, he would forget about spanking her. He could think of more pleasant ways to spend an evening.

  “Griffyn?”

  He gave her a dark look and willed the image away again. “The stairs, correct?”

  “This way.” She led, as usual, though he could see where the stairwell was as easily as she. The voices from the men grew louder now. They were definitely headed this way. She moved quickly, despite the darkness in the warehouse, stumbling only once over a tumbled crate. He avoided it because he’d seen her trip, but he seemed to knock his knee on everything else imaginable. She must have had cat eyes to see her way around the debris.

  She climbed the stairs silently, with him right on her heels, as they heard the padlock being opened. A sliver of light danced through the door’s crack, and they dove into the upper room, closing the door behind them. For a moment, they both rested against the door, catching their breath. The voices of the men were inside now, and Dominic watched the light of the lamps make long shadows on the ceiling. He counted two, no three or possibly four men’s voices.

  On hands and knees, she began to crawl toward the center of the room, nearest the open area, where she could look down on the floor. Why the hell did he have to see that flash of flesh? He could think of little else as he watched her crawl along the floor. Dominic supposed he should worry about the men below. They would be none too pleased to find the two of them in their warehouse. Perhaps he should have tried harder to make her return home.

  She paused and rose on her knees, looking over the ledge to the floor below. Whatever she saw caused her to gasp and jerk back down. She swore—oaths a lady should not even know, let alone utter.

  “Problem?” he asked.

  “No. Everything is fine.” She fumbled in her skirts, giving him more than a flash of her upper thigh, and pulled out a small pistol. Dominic’s brow rose. It rose farther when she also produced a shooting bag with balls, powder, and a priming horn.

  “Do you have a cannon under there too?”

  She didn’t even smile. This was new. He’d seen women shoot hunting rifles before, but he’d never seen one with a pistol. And this one seemed to have been made for her. It was small and feminine. Why did she need a pistol, and why did she carry one on her person?

  He had that uneasy feeling again. It was becoming familiar. Mission. The word echoed in his mind.

  Dominic made his way across the floor in much the same manner as she. When he was beside her, he peered over the ledge. It took a moment for him to make sense of the scene below. Two men were moving about, while one man tied a fourth to a chair. That man did not look as though he needed restraints. He slumped over, head on his chest, face bloody and swollen. A fifth man stood, arms crossed casually, and watched. He glanced toward the spot where Dominic and Miss Bonde hid, and Dominic ducked down again.

  “What’s going on?” he whispered.

  “There’s no shipment,” she said, finishing priming the pistol. It made him nervous to note how comfortable she was with such a task—as though she had done it many times before.

  “Perhaps it’s merely late.”

  “The idiot contact didn’t understand the code. The cargo isn’t from a ship,” she whispered. “The cargo is that agent.”

  “You know that man?”

  She nodded. “He works for my uncle.”

  “So he’s a spy.”

  “More or less.”

  “And the man below?”

  “The tall, thin one with the dark hair in the blue velvet coat?”

  “That one.”

  “Foncé, leader of the Maîtriser group. And all you need know is that he and the Maîtriser group are very, very dangerous.”

  “I have a bad feeling.”

  She peered over the ledge again. “It’s mutual.”

  “And voilà!” the man said from below. “It is complete.”

  Dominic noted he had a French accent.

  “I have a bad feeling
this—”

  “Now, where is my amie? Bon soir, Mademoiselle Bonde. Where are you?” Foncé’s tone might have been playful, but the malice in his voice was not.

  Dominic cut his gaze to Miss Bonde.

  “—is a trap,” she finished.

  Eight

  This was bad. Very, very bad. She had been in worse situations. She had escaped them, but she had never been in this sort of situation with a civilian beside her and a wounded agent below. Did she save Griffyn or Viking?

  Or did she simply say to hell with all of them and kill Foncé here and now? Yes, his men would storm the room. Yes, she would end up dead herself, but the world would be free from the leader of the Maîtriser group. He wouldn’t be able to carve people up for his amusement any longer. Killing him and sacrificing herself would probably be the least selfish thing to do. But she was, unfortunately, rather selfish. She did not want to die, nor did she want Griffyn dead. Viking might already be dead. She hadn’t seen him move since he’d been brought in, though his body didn’t appear as stiff and inflexible as dead bodies grew after even a short period of time.

  Griffyn was looking at her. She supposed he expected her to devise some sort of plan.

  She didn’t have one.

  “Oh, mademoiselle! I know you are here! Where are you?” Foncé sang.

  “Go to hell,” she hissed, still crouching beneath the ledge. Think. Think! There was another window in the office, but even if she managed to pry it open and slide through before Foncé’s men reached her, the drop was substantial. She could break a leg. Then she’d be Foncé’s prisoner and suffer a broken leg. And if she did manage to escape, it would mean leaving Viking behind.

  She’d never left a fallen agent.

  “Are you behind those crates?” Foncé asked. She imagined him gesturing to the stack of crates, and a moment later she heard them tumble to the ground as his men toppled them. “Hmm. No. What about under that table?”

  “There aren’t many more hiding places,” Griffyn pointed out.

  “Good. I’m ready for the conclusion.”

  “How foolish of me. I was actually hoping we might live another day.” He leaned his head back on the wall where she overlooked the ledge. “Is there any chance of survival?”

  “Oh, there’s always a chance. I could take a cue from Baron and set the place on fire, but I don’t have a tinderbox. Do you?”

  “No,” he said, voice ominous.

  “Scratch fire, then. I have enough pistol balls to shoot all of them, but they will probably take cover while I reload. Then we’d be at a stalemate.”

  “Behind the door?” Foncé called from below. “I will find you!”

  “If you actually know how to fire that thing, I am in favor of shooting them.”

  Jane rolled her eyes. Of course he doubted her. Men always did. She usually used that to her advantage, but Griffyn’s skepticism made her a little sad. “I know how to fire it, but I think the better course is to let them find us.”

  He glowered at her. “I have to disagree.”

  “You don’t merit an opinion. Roll those two barrels near the door.”

  He didn’t jump to do her bidding, which annoyed her, but what had she expected? Finally, he moved in a crouch to the two wine barrels and pushed them quietly toward the doorway. He had an easy enough time that she deduced they were empty. That was unfortunate. Still, she rose on her knees and peeked over the ledge. “Oh, Foncé!” She waved her handkerchief. “Up here!” She dropped back down as the sound of a shot being fired reverberated off the walls of the warehouse. She wasn’t certain where the ball struck, but it wasn’t terribly close. Foncé might have light below, but it couldn’t penetrate the shadows up here.

  “That missed me,” Griffyn said low. “Perhaps you are not trying hard enough to see me killed.”

  “Ye of little faith,” she muttered. The barrels were in place, and that had been all she asked. She heard the men’s footsteps on the stairs, and she moved to the door, keeping low. “Step back,” she said, motioning Griffyn out of the way.

  “I’ll help,” he said, refusing to budge from her side.

  She huffed out a breath. “This is no time for chivalry.”

  “It’s not chivalry. It’s survival.”

  She had no time left to argue. The sound of the footsteps grew closer and closer. Beside her, Griffyn leaned forward with anticipation. She put a steadying hand on his arm. Timing was crucial. She could hear him breathe faster as the footsteps crashed down on them, and still she waited. Finally, at the last moment, she threw the door open, knocking one of Foncé’s men backward. “Now!” she yelled, and Griffyn heaved a barrel down the steps. They rolled mercilessly, striking first the man, who reeled from being hurt by the door. He tumbled down, taking the other man with him. When they tried to rise, Griffyn launched another barrel at them, sending them tumbling down the stairs.

  “Follow me!” Jane yelled, running down the steps. She didn’t look to see if Griffyn followed. She could protect him better by killing Foncé. She leaped over the two men, who were lying unconscious at the base of the steps, and spotted Foncé making for the exit door. “Oh, no you don’t,” she murmured pulling her pistol from her pocket. She aimed, cocked the hammer, and fired, but she missed—barely—and Foncé scooted out the door.

  She uttered a scream of frustration and followed, only to be pulled back by strong arms. “Griffyn!” she yelled.

  But it wasn’t Griffyn.

  The men at the base of the steps weren’t quite as lifeless as she’d hoped. One of them had her by the arm, and when she turned, he punched her in the stomach. Her breath whooshed out of her, and she doubled over, but she recovered before he could hit her again and kicked his shin.

  He didn’t release her arm, though she yanked hard enough to tear her sleeve. Foncé was escaping! “Let. Go!” She tried to kick him, but he danced backward and struck at her again. This time she saw the glint of steel.

  He laughed at the surprise on her face as Griffyn grabbed his shoulder from behind and spun him around. The man released Jane, but she watched long enough to see Griffyn’s strong right smash into Foncé’s man’s nose. “Thank you,” she called.

  “Go!”

  She was already gone. She raced out of the warehouse, hearing the thud as the door slammed behind her. Immediately, she pressed her back against the outside wall. Foncé could be waiting out here. This might be a ploy to lure her outside. She scanned the area for him and saw nothing and no one. She edged along the wall, stopping to listen.

  Plop. Plop.

  Was that the Thames lapping against the dock?

  Plop.

  Was it Foncé? Had he been wounded?

  She felt something plink onto her boot and looked down. Hellfire and damnation. She was the one wounded.

  Blood stained the front of her gown, and she pressed a hand to her belly. Foncé’s man had stabbed her with his dagger. She’d thought it only his fist, but this wasn’t the first time the excitement of the moment cushioned the pain. She felt it now. Keenly.

  She drew her hand away, staring at her crimson-stained palm. Head dizzy, she lurched back inside the warehouse. It took her a moment to catch her bearings. Griffyn was being useful. He’d tied up the man with the knife and was working on the other man, utilizing a long piece of rope of the sort found on sailing vessels. He glanced at her then looked again. Whatever he saw caused him to drop the rope and abandon the man he was binding. “What the hell happened?”

  She waved her hand as though the wound was nothing. And no organs were spilling out, so she considered it a mere flesh wound. “I’m fine,” she said. “Secure him.”

  “You’re bleeding,” Griffyn pointed out.

  “It’s a stomach wound. Those take a long time to kill a person.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  She ig
nored him, focusing on Viking instead. He still hadn’t moved. It might already be too late for the other agent. “Viking,” she said, walking toward him. She wobbled unsteadily, her legs swerving off to one side without her permission. Jane fell to her knees beside the other agent. He had a shock of blond hair, pale blue eyes, and wide shoulders, an appearance that had earned him his sobriquet. She lifted his square face from his chest, and his eyes fluttered and rolled back. “Oh, Viking.”

  Griffyn came up behind her. “He’s still alive,” she said without waiting for him to ask. “Help me untie him.”

  She had intended to assist in the untying, but she couldn’t seem to force her legs to hold her. She stayed kneeling beside him, which might have been for the best. As soon as the agent’s hands were free, he tumbled to the floor. She caught him, breaking his fall and noting the blood on his chest.

  “What happened?” she asked, listening to his ragged breathing. Tears she refused to shed stung her eyes. She knew the sound of the death rattle.

  “Listen,” Viking said, blood gurgling in his throat. “Not much time.”

  “Nonsense. I’ll take you to Farrar. He’ll patch you up in no time.”

  “Bloody butcher,” Viking croaked, but he was smiling. “Keep him away.”

  “Just hold on.” She began to rise, intending to pull him up beside her, but he grabbed her gown.

  “Listen, Bonde.” His voice was low now, almost inaudible. She bent close.

  “I’m listening.”

  “He knows. Watch your back. Tell…”

  He coughed, blood spilling out of his mouth and onto his chest. A good deal of it splattered on her, but she didn’t flinch. Griffyn—she’d all but forgotten him—handed her a handkerchief, and she used it to wipe Viking’s chin.

  She wanted to tell Viking to save his strength. She wanted to be kind, but she needed to know what he knew. Swallowing her disgust at herself, she prompted, “Tell…”

  Viking nodded. His eyes closed, and his breathing stuttered. She was losing him. “Viking. Tell what? Tell someone?”

  He nodded. “M,” he rasped.