Checkmate, My Lord

chapter Four


August 10

Sebastian Danvers tipped back the last of his brandy, his mood blacker than the cheerless moon outside his library window. Alone with his own thoughts, his mind had inevitably focused on Lord Latymer’s scheme with the French to have him assassinated. From the moment he’d learned of his friend’s treachery, Sebastian’s well-crafted plans to put an end to Napoleon’s dictatorship had splintered into a thousand useless fragments.

Latymer’s deception had come close to crippling the Nexus beyond redemption. Had the French succeeded in killing him a fortnight ago, his agents would have been operating blind, placing them and England in jeopardy. The safeguards he’d put in place long ago would have bought them all a little time, but not much.

All his attention to detail had still not protected his wards, and as a result, both had come close to losing their lives in a recent skirmish with a depraved Frenchman. Sebastian had never married and had no intention of doing so; therefore, Cora and Ethan were the closest he would ever come to being a father. Even with them, his role was more mentor than parent.

Unfortunately, Latymer’s treachery was not the worst complication of Sebastian’s last mission. The former under-superintendent’s subsequent, and rather convenient, escape forced the Alien Office to turn its suspicious eye on Sebastian. He was officially unofficially placed on leave. Relegated to the country like some recalcitrant child while the new Superintendent of Aliens sifted through his confidential files for signs of sedition.

Gritting his teeth, he strolled back to the brandy decanter and poured another healthy measure into his glass. A man in his position did not surrender over a decade’s worth of clandestine operation files without experiencing a degree of gut-churning dread.

Sebastian turned to stare at the single sheet of paper resting on the small writing desk. The damned thing had kept him pacing long into the night. Before he’d left London, Superintendent Reeves had demanded a list of names, precious names. His agents’ names. Sebastian had protected his operatives for years by never revealing their identities. Not to his superiors, nor to other operatives. Everyone used code names to protect them and their families.

Thank God for his foresight. Had he shared their identities and current locations with Latymer, they would all likely be dead now. But the combination of Reeves’s request and Sebastian’s brush with death gnawed at his conscience. For the first time, he began to question his decision to not share his agents’ information with a select few at the Alien Office.

What if his safeguards failed? What would become of those he had protected with his silence? Who would take command of the Nexus and lead his agents safely through their next mission?

He had only to recall Cora’s captivity in an enemy dungeon for that particular point to be driven home. If the madman who had kidnapped her hadn’t carried a distorted version of love for her, Sebastian suspected she would have left the dungeon in pieces, rather than sustaining horrid bruises, cuts, and burn marks.

Still, he hesitated. If the request had come from his previous superintendent, William Wickham, Sebastian would have had fewer qualms about handing over such deadly information to a man he knew and trusted.

In the year since Reeves’s appointment, he had allowed Sebastian to run the Nexus as he saw fit. Sebastian was certain a gentleman with Reeves’s credentials—Oxford education, learned lawyer, King’s Printer—would look into the backgrounds of those closest to him. The same as Sebastian had done when Reeves accepted the appointment. If Latymer had whispered lies into Reeves’s ear, Sebastian would have to trust that the superintendent would use that clever mind of his to untangle the lies from the truth.

Tearing his gaze away from the blank sheet of paper, he strode to the window and pressed his forehead against a cool pane, savoring the contrast to his heated skin. He looked to the east, toward the widow’s estate. From this vantage point, he could just make out… nothing. With a new moon riding high in the sky, he could barely see the large urn-shaped flowerpots marking the entrance to the sunken garden.

Thoughts of the widow brought him back to his blunder on the terrace earlier in the day. Unobtrusively scanning an area for potential threats was one of the first tasks he’d mastered after joining the Alien Office. So, how was it that a widow from the country noticed his preoccupation, but skilled international spies could not?

From what little he had gleaned from his butler, Mrs. Ashcroft made a habit of detecting people’s failures. His steward’s in particular, and now his. Her keen observation skills weren’t the only reason for him to remain vigilant in her presence. While speaking with her earlier in the day, he’d had an annoying tendency to compare her honey-colored hair to that of a soft winter’s sun and her petite, yet perfectly proportioned figure to sculptures he’d seen of the Roman goddess Venus.

With Superintendent Reeves searching his private files and the widow distracting his thoughts, it was no wonder he’d bungled his surveillance of the garden and the shadowed tree line beyond. Sebastian closed his eyes and forced the tension from his neck, shoulders, and arms. He worked his way down his body until his knees unlocked, and he leaned his weight fully against the windowsill.

Damnation, he was tired. Intrigue had ruled his thoughts for so long that he could not recall a time when the Realm’s safety hadn’t commanded his daily schedule. Long hours, sleepless nights, and extended trips away from home. Add in a liberal dose of lies, deceptions, and countermeasures, and one had a recipe for growing older far faster than the body was designed to handle. His three and a half decades suddenly held the weight of a man twenty years his senior.

Pushing away from the window, he liberated his glass of its amber contents. The expensive liquor slid down his throat with practiced ease but refused to dull his disquieting thoughts. He grabbed the decanter and sat down at his desk with an uncharacteristic plop.

A glass in one hand and the decanter in the other, he rested his forearms on his desk, framing the sheet of paper. The emptiness mocked him. Burned his eyes with its challenging glare. Why hadn’t he thrown the bothersome thing back in the drawer and said to hell with Reeves and his debilitating demands? Because he couldn’t answer one simple question: Should he?

His heart began the familiar, painful tattoo while he watched ghostly vowels and consonants weave together to create forbidden links. Links that could one day force a power-driven ruler to his conquering knees.

Sebastian had sworn never to write down such valuable intelligence. If the information fell into the wrong hands, dozens of lives he was responsible for would be forfeited, and by extension, hundreds would perish. Should he?

Dear God, he didn’t know. Never in his life had he been so indecisive. But this decision could have ramifications far beyond his comprehension. And yet, if he did not give Reeves the list of secret service agents and something happened to him and his safeguards collapsed, the Nexus would suffer. England would suffer.

He tipped the heavy crystal decanter toward his glass again, not stopping until the liquid threatened to spill over the side. He stared at the trembling contents for a long contemplative moment before raising the drink to his lips and indulging in an uncivilized gulp, and waited.

Ah, there it was. Finally.

The first stirrings of numbness penetrated the deep recesses of his mind like a slow, thick fog pushing through the streets of London. Sebastian inhaled a cooling breath, silently encouraging the numbness to greater depths. He took another sip for good measure before exchanging his half-empty tumbler for an ink-dipped quill and then steeled himself against the inevitable bout of sickness. Because no matter how potent the spirit, Sebastian would never feel at ease with what he was about to do.

Dabbing the pen’s nib against the inkwell, Sebastian considered his first entry. None of them would be easy, but the first—the first name would start an unpredictable series of events that frankly scared the hell out of him. He tightened his hold on the pen. Who would be his first sacrifice?

Images flashed before his eyes with blinding speed, making his head spin and his world tilt to the left. That’s when he saw it.

A missive propped against the table lamp. He recalled Grayson handing it to him hours ago, but he had paid it no mind for he had already crossed the threshold into the darkness that engulfed him more and more these days. Why he noticed it now, he couldn’t be sure. But he welcomed the distraction.

Replacing the quill, Sebastian picked up the missive and regarded the neat script. Beautifully formed letters made by a confident hand. He lifted the parchment to his nose and detected a faint feminine scent that managed to calm his raging imagination in a way the alcohol hadn’t.

Breaking the seal, he pressed open the folds and skimmed the contents. Warmth flooded his chest.

Dear Lord Somerton,

I do hope you are settling in at Bellamere Park. After giving your situation additional consideration, I would like to extend an offer of my services. I have come to know the craftsmen in the area quite well and can make recommendations based on that knowledge.

Should you wish to go it alone; however, I have taken the top three pressing issues from my previous list and indicated an appropriate craftsman for the task. Grayson will know how to contact them. This abbreviated list will get you started while you are sorting through the circumstances at Bellamere.

Please let me know if I can be of further assistance.

Your faithful neighbor,

Catherine Ashcroft

Catherine. His thumb traced over the widow’s signature. Like her handwriting, her name exuded quiet confidence, warmth, and invitation. The room shifted again, righting itself, and the darkness surrounding him began to ebb away.

She wanted to help him.

Sebastian could not recall the last time someone wanted to be of service to him without an outstretched hand in return or, in less favorable circumstances, using the service as a mask for something a great deal more diabolical. He supposed the widow could be pandering to him in the hopes of snagging a new husband.

But that scheme did not ring true. With a difficult marriage behind her, she would not be keen on taking vows again. Unlike the aristocracy, Ashcroft had no qualms about investing his money in the Stock Exchange. As a result, his widow and daughter were set for the foreseeable future. However, she was nothing if not practical and would want what was best for her daughter. Which meant she might be father-shopping rather than husband-hunting.

He pressed the tips of his fingers into the flesh covering his pounding temple. Agents shackled with families could be compromised by the enemy and distracted from their purpose. He had known this when recruiting Ashcroft. But the young man had shown such promise that Sebastian had ignored the greatest—and last—lesson his murdered mentor had ever taught: Families don’t survive the spy business.

And Sebastian would have to live with the knowledge that, given the same situation, he would have recruited Ashcroft all over again. Because England had needed the clever young man as much as, if not more than, his family did.

Sebastian blew out a harsh breath. The sight of Jeffrey Ashcroft slouched against the side of a soot-covered building, blood spreading across his filched peasant’s shirt, surfaced with aching clarity. Slamming his eyes shut, he squeezed the bridge of his nose in a feeble attempt to block the memories of that disastrous night. When pressure failed to provide the desired results, he retrieved his glass and belted back the last dregs of his drink.

Once he retrieved the rest of Ashcroft’s letters, and Helsford deciphered them, Sebastian would come up with a believable story for the widow. One that would identify a murderer and provide Catherine and her daughter with a measure of justice.

From the tone of Ashcroft’s previous correspondence, Sebastian suspected the agent had stumbled across something significant. Something he hadn’t wanted to reveal through their normal channels of communication. Which meant they could be dealing with one or more prominent figures in the government or the ton.

Again.

They were still trying to assess the damage done by Latymer’s scheming. If the Foreign Office was housing another high-level double spy, the repercussions could be disastrous. Sebastian prayed Ashcroft’s last batch of correspondence held the vital clue they needed in order to circumvent another threat.

Sebastian stared hard at Catherine’s signature. All thoughts of Ashcroft, danger, and missives faded to the background. The widow, with her generous heart, staunch support, and perfect English body, sliced through his troubled musings.

What would it be like to share the company of an attractive woman who wished him no ill will? Just a few stolen hours. Hours in which he debated nothing more complicated than overseeing a series of repairs. And where he might steal a kiss or deliver a caress.

Could he spend time with Catherine and keep the details of her husband’s death a secret? Could he watch over his agent’s family and plot ways to entice the widow into his bed? He released a cynical half-snort. Of course he could. It was what he did best.

Deception, lies, and secrets.