Page 22 of To Love A Spy
“Guilty as charged.” He did not look at all repentant.
“You’ve barely escaped death by drowning, you’ve nearly instigated another war with our former colonies, and you’ll be shot as spy if you make one slip in Paris.” She shook her head. “Most men would not find that remotely amusing.”
“One man’s poison is another man’s pleasure,” he answered with a faint smile.
Whydidthe marquess do what he did?
Valencia had often puzzled over the question. Not for money, that was for sure. His family fortune was said to be one of the largest in all of England. He could well afford to live a leisured life of pampered indulgence. Any whim, any desire satisfied at the snap of his fingers.
He did not appear to crave personal prestige or power either. By all accounts she had heard, Lynsley shunned attention, going out of his way to see that credit for his successes went to others.
She frowned. It was one thing for her, a penniless orphan, to accept such risks. She had learned at an early age that violence and deceit was a sordid reality of life. The Academy had given her a chance to fight against tyranny and injustice. Lynsley, onthe other hand, had surely been shielded from any hardship by virtue of his wealth and rank.
The Marquess of Mystery, she thought wryly. Whatever his reasons, he kept them very private.
On entering Mrs. Tremaine’s bedchamber, Valencia quickly nudged such musings aside. The present challenge must take precedence over speculation on the marquess’s motivations.
From the adjoining room, she heard Lynsley directing Jalet’s men to begin packing up one of the trunks. The marquess was fortunate in that he and the consul were close to the same size and build. It was going to be trickier for her. Tremaine’s wife was shorter and stouter—and quite a bit more well-endowed in the chest.
Valencia made a face as she surveyed the dresses hanging in the painted armoire. “I may have to stick to trousers,” she muttered to herself, fingering the frothings of silk and lace. Her willowy figure—slim as a rapier, and just as flat—seemed better suited to boy’s garments than fancy ballgowns, she admitted with just a touch of regret.
Turning around, she found Lynsley regarding her with an oddly inscrutable look. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a purely pragmatic glance at the wardrobe. He moved to her side and quickly sorted through the garments.
Calling to Jalet, he asked, “Is there a local girl you can trust who is skilled with a needle and thread? It would be helpful if she could serve as a lady’s maid for part of the trip. I have sent word to London for one of my own people, but she and my valet won’t be meeting us until Caen.”
“As it happens, the owners of this place have a daughter who will be perfect for the job,” replied his agent. “I shall send her up directly and she can alter one of the traveling dresses whilemademoisellebathes.”
“She may have to be a magician,” quipped Valencia.
The marquess was already inspecting a seagreen gown of watered silk. “The hem of this one can be let down, and the bodice can be pinched in at the seams—a good two inches on either side should do the trick.”
She flushed slightly to think he had been measuring her chest against the American lady’s buxom bosom.
And quite accurately, she admitted.
“You appear to have a great deal of experience in sizing up women,” she muttered as Jalet headed for the stairs.
“In our line of work, one must have a sharp eye for detail,” he responded blandly.
She couldn’t argue with that. Tossing her cloak and pistol on the dressing table, she loosened the top fastening of her shirt. “I trust that scrutiny does not require you to remain here while I bathe.”
Lynsley let the sarcasm go over his head. He draped the dress over his arm with a small nod. “I’ll have the girl get to work on this. The hot water is here now. You need not rush. It will take some time for her to finish.”
Once she was alone, Valencia stripped off her salt-stiff garments and sunk into the suds with a sigh of relief. Steam curled up from the copper tub, redolent with the fragrance of the lavender soap. The warmth was soothing against her weary limbs. But beneath the soft caress, she was aware of a more uncomfortable heat.
Damn the man.Water sloshed over the sides as she tipped a pitcher of water over her head. Lynsley still aroused a tempest of conflicting emotions within her.Hot and cold, fire and ice.She had thought herself finally free of emotional extremes. Age had tempered her disillusionment, rubbed the rough edges off her doubts and her anger.
Or so she had thought.
Holding her breath, she sunk beneath the surface. No, she wouldnotlet him bring out the worst in her. Whatever her other faults, she would not allow him to think she had lost every last vestige of professionalism. Hell, she was still a Merlin in spirit if not in name.
And a Merlin did not snap like an ill-tempered shrew.
Especially as the marquess had meant nothing personal by his comment on her bosom. He had merely been expressing a practical observation. Valencia’s mouth quirked wryly as she rinsed the last of the soap from her hair. The marquess might just as well have been looking at melons or oranges.
A dispassionate devotion to duty.
She must match his discipline.
