My Lord and Spymaster

“Some days,” Doyle said, “life is just a bloody great old trial.”

“How right you are, Mr. Doyle.” She pushed wet hair out of her eyes and waited for the right minute to start yelling bloody murder.

Two

SEBASTIAN KENNETT DIDN’T CONSIDER HIMSELF castaway drunk. He wasn’t precisely sober either, of course. There was a wide stretch of navigable ocean between drunk and dead sober. Fine sailing in those waters.

And wasn’t it a day for celebrating. Riley, his senior captain, master of the Lively Dancer, had come reeling into Eaton Expediters at noon, bringing a cask of French brandy and good news. Riley’s son had been born just as the man was setting anchor off Wapping at dawn. Fine brawling toasts everyone had drunk to young Thomas Francis Sebastian Riley. When they’d finished the brandy at the shipping office, they’d spilled into the tavern across the street—him and Riley and the shipping clerks and a dozen of his ships’ officers and some total strangers—and taken up drinking there. A noisy strong lad was Thomas Francis Sebastian Riley, according to Riley, who knew something about babies. Baby Thomas Francis would need all the bellowing lungs he could muster, poor mite, with six older sisters. Give him a few years, and he’d probably run away to sea.

A fine day. An excellent day. More than enough reason to raise his voice in song, entertaining Katherine Lane.

“These are the finest oysters that ever you did see.

I sells ’em three a penny, but I’ll give ’em to you free . . .”

He tipped his head back and let rain fall on his face. Heaven. He’d been back less than a week, home from the heat and stink of Corfu and points east. The cold pulled the poisons out of his lungs. It was good to breathe weather with some weight to it.

Adrian sang off-key, rapping his cane along the slats and shutters in time with the music. He wasn’t drunk. Adrian didn’t get drunk, not in his profession. He just couldn’t sing worth a damn.

“For I see that you’re a lover of oysters.”

The brothels were islands of warmth and light floating in the fog. Upstairs, on the second floor, a couple of black-skinned ladies leaned out the window with their long, oiled hair hanging down. The crimson and yellow robes across their shoulders were the brightest thing in these streets. Their little dark breasts were propped up naked on their arms, looking chilly. They called after him as he passed, raucous as seagulls, selling themselves. He waved and kept on singing.

“Have you got a cozy room that’s empty and nearby,

where me and my pretty little oyster girl can lie

while we bargain for her basket of oysters?”

The street bucked under him in a heavy groundswell. He rode it out. Didn’t even stumble. Climbing the rigging taught you to keep your feet. The captain had to set an example. Adrian didn’t need to go propping him up. He didn’t have to grin like that either.

“She picked my pocket and then off again ran she.

She left me with a basketful of—”

A woman’s scream of terror and pain cut the fog.

It came from that narrow gape of an alley. The world snapped into focus around him.

The street was walled at both ends with fog. Sharp, black edges stood out from the gray—a slant of rail, a doorsill, the line of a shutter. A tavern in the distance leaked drunken clamor.

Adrian stepped clear, opening up the fighting space. Ghost in the fog was Adrian. They stood, back to back. He set his hand light on the hilt of his knife. Adrian drew one of his.

Faint and nearby, he heard the brush of cloth on cloth. Somebody stood in that black slash of an alley waiting and watching. Almost, he could hear them breathing.

The next instant feet scraped into a run, starting from a dead stop. A girl rounded the corner, racing as if all the devils in hell were after her. A dark cloak flapped around her, the hood falling over her face, her pale dress revealed, glowing like a candle flame. Head down, arms outstretched, she ran right at him, and hit so hard she staggered.

She clutched his coat. Obligingly, he took hold of her so she wouldn’t end up on those hard cobbles. Smoothly done, on both their parts. Damsel in distress was the name of this game. Bad luck for her he’d seen it played out before in a dozen variations.

Right on cue, the alley gave up a threatening figure, huge and male, carrying a two-foot fong a twolength of pipe. The brute stopped short, staying invisible in the shadows. He held the pose, seeming to weigh odds. Then he lowered the cudgel and rabbited off the way he’d come, surprisingly shy for a fellow that large.

Behind him, Adrian murmured, “This has become interesting. Excuse me . . .” and took off down the same alley, silent as a fish.

His pretty pickpocket stayed fastened onto his lapels, breathing heavily into his waistcoat. There wasn’t a man on earth who wouldn’t collect her in close, being helpful.

“Please . . .” She panted and dripped, truly pitiful. “Oh, please. He’s after me.” When she twisted to look over her shoulder, her breasts nuzzled across him like hungry puppies. His groin tightened right up, wanting a share of that.

You’re good at this, aren’t you? This damp young woman had been standing in the rain a good long time, waiting for the right pigeon to come along. She made a sweet armful. He snuggled her to him, smelling lavender, and the wet wool from her cloak, and some feminine, flowery perfume that came from her skin. There were cooking spices in her hair.

If she was skilled enough, he wouldn’t even feel her going through his pockets. He didn’t keep more than four or five shillings jingling around loose in there. She was welcome to them. Nobody knew better than he did the chill and loneliness of those rooms on the second floor. Let her buy some coal to warm her toes tonight, or a meat pie, or a day’s peace from her pimp, who would be that oversized lout play-acting with the lead pipe.

She’d find a knife or two when she worked her way around his jacket. But she must be used to men who carried knives.

Then her hood furled back. She looked straight at him, and he stopped finding any of this funny.

My God, look at her. Not pretty, was all he could think. There’s nothing pretty about her. That’s beauty. The thought formed clear as the strike of a bell.

She had the face of an ardent Viking. Strands of wet hair lay along the spare curve of her cheek, outlining the bones. Eyes the color of Baltic amber met his. In the weak, rainy dusk, her skin glowed like Greek honey.

All by themselves, his hands reached under the wet cloak and pushed it back. Her cotton dress stuck to her like a second skin. Her nipples had crested up to crinkly nubs, drawn hard with the cold. He circled her body with his hands and stroked downward and pulled her in the last inches till she was against his body. Her back was sleek, supple muscle, trembling some.

“Help me,” she whispered, radiating sincerity. Her fingers flirted across his chest, checking for an inside pocket to his jacket and possible banknotes. “He won’t come after me if I’m with a man like you.”

He was enticed. Utterly charmed. All the time she was spouting that clumsy flattery, she searched him with an intense, featherlight, touch-by-touch exploration that was incredibly erotic. Did she know that? She was so close she was breathing warm up and down his chest, setting off a little twist in his groin every time he felt the air stir on him.

Her lips shaped some silly story about getting out of her hackney to buy something and being attacked. About running, lost in the fog. But he wasn’t listening. He watched her mouth. A man could glide his thumb into that sweet, wide mouth and ease her lips apart and ready her up for kissing. It’d be no trouble at all.

Amazing. He was ravenous for her. He’d gone hard as a rock just looking at her mouth.

She stood straight as a little sapling, taut against him, keyed up and lying through her teeth. Bright, nervous intelligence burned like a fire inside her. She couldn’t lie worth a damn.