Page 22 of One Thing Leads to a Lover

Martha had not yet opened the draperies, so the room was full of shadows. In the ochre-tinged light that passed through the panels of yellow silk, her elder son looked as sallow as ever. He paused a few feet from her bedside and tossed his dark hair from his eyes.

“Are you feeling all right, Mama? It’s nearly nine.”

Amanda pushed upright and swiped at her mouth with the back of one hand. Ordinarily at this hour, she would be in the schoolroom, breakfasting with her sons. “Yes, dear. Yes, of course.” She felt as though she were speaking around a wad of cotton. “Only it was quite late when I got home last night, so I—”

“Uncle George seems chipper enough.” She heard a note of judgment in Jamie’s voice, and he looked at her with a critical eye as he spoke. He knew, of course, that she’d been out late at Lord Dulsworthy’s ball. She wouldn’t put it past him to have waited up. “He’s downstairs,” he explained then, a little twist of annoyance curling his lips. “And he’s brought you flowers.”

Those words set her thoughts spinning, which did nothing for the state of either her head or her stomach. She’d managed to avoid a proposal last night. But if George was determined, she wouldn’t be able to avoid him forever. “How…kind of him.”

“He’s asking to take Philip and me for a drive. I suspect Pip’s already got the reins in his hands. But I thought we’d just better ask permission, and Grandmama…well, you know…”

“Doesn’t like to be wakened early. Yes, I do know.” Amanda glanced toward the window, at the light seeping around the edges of the drapery and the hint of blue sky beyond. “It looks like a fine morning after yesterday’s rain. Do you want to go for a drive with Lord Dulsworthy?”

Jamie lifted one shoulder in a shrug, but she saw in his bright eyes the telltale signs that at least some portion of his reluctance was feigned. Though he was quieter and more bookish than his brother, he was not indifferent to a high-perch phaeton and prime horseflesh, even when they belonged to George. Perhaps with the boys, George allowed the horses have their heads.

“Go on with you then. And tell Pip I said he’s not to whoop and holler until you’re well out of Mayfair,” she called after him, before collapsing on the pillow once more.

Flowers, an early call…at least George hadn’t insisted on speaking to her.

Yet.

Martha entered a moment later, bearing a tray of coffee and toast. “When you didn’t join Lord Kingston and Master Philip upstairs like usual, I thought you might rather take something in your room, milady.” She placed the tray over Amanda’s lap with exaggerated care, so nothing rattled—nothing but Martha herself. Mama was appalled by the maid’s tendency to chatter familiarly, and just now, Amanda was inclined to agree with her mother. “I’ve only just managed to fix that frightful rent in your gown, ma’am. Must’ve been quite a night.” Martha’s expression was nothing short of sly.

But Amanda could hardly fault the girl for thinking that her mistress had stayed out too late and had too much to drink. It was true, after all.

What would she say if she knew it had all been at the service of a spy? A spy had needed her, Amanda Barlett’s, help.

And now, he…didn’t.

Amanda had heard rumors that forgetfulness, even oblivion, might be found at the bottom of a glass. Last night at supper, she’d held out hope that at the very least, she might blur the edges of her memory.

Now, however, all she had to show for her intemperance was a dry mouth and a headache. Everything about the evening remained crystal clear.

George’s expression as he demanded to know where she’d got off to, his brow creased by a deep frown of disapproval he’d tried to pass off as worry.

Lord Penhurst’s curse when what remained of her fourth glass of wine had landed in his lap.

The spice of Magpie’s kiss. The bitter tang of his parting words.

So much for her little adventure.

* * * *

At some hour well past midnight, following a swift but thorough search of Dulsworthy’s study, Langley returned to the Underground empty handed.

All was quiet. The faint light beneath the workroom door suggested no more than a single candle still burned within. Against his better judgment, he opened the door but found the room unoccupied.

Anything truly valuable to the war effort had been locked away by the last person to leave. The signs that remained of the work that went on in that space—crumpled bits of paper, the trimmings from pens, open books left lying face down—put him in mind of an untidy schoolroom.

With the swipe of an arm, he cleared a space, sat down in a sturdy chair, and laid his forehead on the scarred wooden tabletop, resisting—but only just—the temptation to strike his head against the cool, unforgiving surface until sense returned, or was driven from his brain forever.

A few moments later, the door opened behind him. Not bothering to sit up, he twisted his neck to identify the arrival.

“No luck, eh?” Colonel Millrose said, studying him from the threshold. Langley knew that dawn must be approaching, for Millrose was dressed in his shop clothes. He opened the tobacconist’s early, for the business that came when the hells and clubs closed their doors and unwitting men, half-drunk with fatigue or entirely drunk on illicit French brandy, wandered in with occasionally interesting stories to tell.

Langley’s only reply was to turn back to his prior position, hiding his face from the other man.

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Millrose strode toward the table, scraped a chair across the floor, and sat down. “But I’m glad to have a chance to speak with you in person. General Scott sent a message just after you left.”