A Spy's Devotion (The Regency Spies of London #1)
Melanie Dickerson
CHAPTER ONE
April 1811. London, England.
Mr. Nicholas Langdon wasn’t supposed to be here.
Miss Julia Grey blinked, but he was still standing across the room from where she sat at the pianoforte.
It was the first party of the Season, and several of her aunt and uncle’s guests surrounded him. And in spite of the recent wounds he’d sustained fighting in the Peninsula, he looked as handsome and whole as he had the last time she’d seen him, a year and a half ago.
Just then, Miss Phoebe Wilhern, Julia’s cousin, turned and saw him—and gasped loudly enough to be heard by everyone in the room. Phoebe’s face turned pink, and the hand she lifted to cover her overjoyed smile never quite reached her mouth.
Julia stood to go to Phoebe, to admonish her not to make her feelings so obvious. Julia had spent the last year and a half trying to help Phoebe forget her infatuation with the faraway army officer and think of other things besides her obsession with Mr. Langdon.
“Do sing for us, Miss Grey.” Mrs. Caldwell hovered by Julia’s elbow, smiling. “We all know you play exceeding well, but we insist on hearing your heavenly voice.”
Julia hesitated, but she wanted to draw attention away from Phoebe. She chose some music while her cousin was still staring at Mr. Langdon, her mouth hanging open, her eyes wide. Phoebe was never very good at hiding her feelings, and her infatuation with Mr. Langdon showed all over her face. Thankfully, he was talking with Mr. Hugh Edgerton and didn’t seem to notice her.
Julia began playing and singing, staring at the sheet music to make sure she didn’t forget the notes. When she glanced up again, Phoebe was standing in front of Mr. Langdon and talking to him.
When Julia finished the song, polite applause erupted.
“Won’t you play my favorite song?” an elderly guest entreated, leaning on his walking stick and plucking the song he wanted from amongst the sheets of music. “You played it so well several months ago, as I recall.”
She longed to go to Phoebe and urge her not to expose herself to gossip. Instead, she said, “Of course.”
Mr. Langdon looked as though his shoulder wound had healed. He’d also suffered a leg wound. Would he have a limp?
He nodded politely to Phoebe and walked away. No limp, but Phoebe gazed forlornly at his perfectly straight, retreating back.
Phoebe had been Julia’s constant companion since Julia was six years old and Phoebe was four. And although Phoebe was impulsive, she did listen to Julia’s admonitions—usually. If Julia told her a man had an insincere countenance and a bad reputation, Phoebe refrained from flirting with him. If Julia advised her to take a shawl because the air was chilly, Phoebe would comply. Then, in the middle of their walk, Phoebe would invariably exclaim, “Julia, if you had not reminded me to bring a shawl, I would have been miserably cold,” and spontaneously embrace her.
A few days before, Julia had confided in Phoebe about Mr. Richard Barrington, who she had thought might ask her to marry him, but he had suddenly shifted his preference to a girl with an inheritance of ten thousand pounds. With a fierce look, Phoebe said, “I can’t imagine any man not falling in love with you, Julia. Mr. Barrington must be an utter fool.”
Julia’s heart had swelled with love for the affectionate girl.
And now, feeling she had little choice, Julia played the old gentleman’s requested song and hoped her cousin wouldn’t do anything too impulsive or indiscreet.
Nicholas Langdon surveyed the room where the dancing would take place. Young ladies in gauzy dresses of pale pink, blue, yellow, and white floated about like butterflies. It was a lovely sight to one who had been isolated from his home country, across the sea with only his fellow officers and soldiers in the Peninsula for almost a year, followed by months of convalescing here in London.
And he could not help noticing Miss Grey seated at the pianoforte, playing and singing with the voice of an angel.
As he dwelt on Miss Grey’s sweet, demure expression, her dark curls that caressed her cheeks, and the brightness of her eyes, Edgerton approached him with a glass of brandy in each hand.
“You’ve been gone too long, Nicholas.” Edgerton handed him one of the glasses. “You’ve forgotten that Miss Grey has no dowry, and you’ve only your officer’s pay.”
Nicholas cut a warning glance at his old school chum.
“Now, don’t look at me like that. I saw you staring at her.” Edgerton gave him his customary snide grin.
He’d forgotten how much he disliked Edgerton’s caustic opinions.
“Miss Grey is only after the wealthiest husband she can catch,” Edgerton continued. “See her smiling at Dinklage? He’s a whey-faced imbecile, but he has fifteen thousand a year.”