The Thespian Spy: The Seductive Spy Series: Book One Page 4

  She hugged her arms across her stomach in an attempt to ward off the frigid air, the parchment crinkling in her hand.

  “I thank you, Mr. Richards, but as much as I would like to—”

  “I apologize for interrupting, Miss Wright, but there is something I should like to add before you make your decision.”

  She nodded, waiting for him to continue.

  “There is one additional advantage to becoming a crown spy. Once your training is complete, you may take on any position in London, be it as a governess, maid…or actress. Whatever you decide, we will ensure that it comes to fruition.”

  Mary stood frozen. Her dreams could be realized, as simple as that? With one stipulation; that she become a spy. Could she do it? Could she become a spy for England? She hugged her arms closer around her middle, the cold and humidity of the night seeping easily through her pelisse and dress, soaking deep into her skin. She was chilled, weary, aching, and injured; she wished for nothing more than a bracing wash with a rag, a cup of watered-down tea, and her lumpy but warm bed.

  But…what if she could have more? What if she could be further educated and acquire a position as an actress in London? She could provide for Papa as he aged, realize her dreams, and live comfortably.

  There was no question.

  “I would be pleased to accept,” she heard herself say, the puff of her breath against the cool air turning to a wispy cloud of fog before her eyes.

  Another grin from Mr. Richards veritably shone in the darkness. “I am pleased to hear it.”

  * * *

  The following hour was a whirlwind. Mr. Richards escorted Mary home, ensuring that she understood the importance of her silent tongue. She wished that she could tell Papa the whole of the tale, but as Mr. Richards so aptly pointed out, any connection that an enemy may make to loved ones could end poorly, indeed.

  They reached her and Papa’s modest crofter’s cottage where she slipped inside to pack her meagre belongings; two dresses, one set of underthings, a pair of half boots, and the beautiful conch shell that had been gifted to her by Gabriel.

  She reached between her mattress and the hard-packed earthen floor and retrieved a small pouch of coins. Where she was going, she did not require her savings. This evening’s earnings, where it currently rested in her pocket, ought to suffice for funds. She then strode toward the worn tabletop near the kitchen to one side of the cottage, and placed the pouch atop it, the coins inside clinking. She retrieved a treasured sheet of vellum and penned a note informing Papa that she was to journey to London for a wonderful opportunity and would write and visit soon. She then placed the note beside the pouch and returned outside to Mr. Richards.

  It was significantly brighter than an hour before, the moon slowly fading with the lightening of the sky. The air still held a strong chill and Mary shivered, lamenting the loss of her mantle.

  Mr. Richards’ gaze flicked down to her attire, then back to her face.

  Mary looked down at herself for the first time since her incident with the three men and she could not help the gasp that escaped. Her pelisse and bodice were torn enough to expose the tops of her breasts and a great amount of blood splattered her front, from exposed bosom to the tips of her half boots.

  “Oh dear,” she said. “I fear this is far beyond repair.”

  He cleared his throat. “We have a modiste and tailor in residence at my estate—Grimsbury Manor. I will have Mrs. McPhee attempt to fix your dress if you like, or she could be commissioned to fashion you an entirely new wardrobe. The choice, of course, is yours.”

  Mary looked up at him, amazed. What an ingenious notion. She was, however, short on coin.

  She gently shook her aching head. “I fear that my dress will have to go. I have two more in my bag, however; they will have to do until I can earn more coin.”

  His grin returned. “I failed to mention, Miss Wright, that our modiste will not work for your coin. I employ her just as I do the cook. You may request of her any number of gowns and she shall make them.” His gaze turned meaningful. “If you are to become an actress, you will require a vastly different style of dress. But you shall learn all of that in your lessons.”

  Mary nodded, a delighted smile on her lips.

  “Are you ready?” Mr. Richards asked.

  Mary looked at him. In the dim light of early dawn, she saw how very handsome the man was. He was tall, lean, and had dark waving hair and a grin that surely broke hearts wherever it was brandished. Her heart, however, was unmoved. She supposed that was for the best.

  “I am ready.”

  Chapter 5

  Brampton, England—three-hours later

  Mary gasped as she was jolted awake. She blinked the blur of sleep away from her eyes, forcing herself to focus on where she was. A carriage. She looked across the well-appointed equipage and saw the ever-grinning Mr. Richards on the opposite velvet-covered squabs.

  It all came flooding back. Her work at the pub, walking through the darkened streets of Carlisle, the three men, what they nearly succeeded in doing to her… She shivered. Then she recalled Mr. Richards’ rescue and subsequent offer. Goodness. Was she mad to be leaving her home to journey with this strange man? She had only known him for mere minutes before she agreed to get in a carriage and travel alone with him, evidently without a care for propriety.

  Her gaze slid over his guileless features. He was absurdly handsome, but it was not his attractiveness that compelled her to trust him. It was some other mysterious quality that she could not quite put a name to. Even so, she was most assuredly mad for agreeing to this scheme.

  “You awoke just in time, Miss Wright,” he said, his eyes glittering with…mirth?

  Mary turned to gaze out the window and her jaw dropped briefly before she could catch it. Mr. Richards’ estate, she presumed. The sun shone over the white marble façade, lending it an ethereal glow. It was four—no, five—stories tall and had marble columns on either side of the massive oak front doors.

  “Grimsbury Manor is grand, is it not?”

  “I should say so,” she whispered, never taking her gaze from the largest home she had ever seen.

  “It was passed down to me by my grandfather several years ago. I’d never had the pleasure of seeing it while he was alive, but I know that he would not wish for it to sit unused. Alas, I turned it into a school…of sorts.”

  The footmen leapt down from the back of the carriage, rocking the equipage with the shift in weight. One opened the door and lowered the step while the other pulled her sack of belongings down from the back. A waft of cool air entered the carriage, bringing with it the crisp scent of an imminent snowfall.

  Mr. Richards exited first, then held his hand out to help her down.

  “So solicitous.” She grinned, and immediately regretted the action, for it pulled at her split lip. Cringing, she touched the tips of her fingers to the cut.

  Compassion lit his eyes. “We have a live-in physician. I will have him examine your wounds.”

  Mary gazed at him in awe and deep appreciation. This man had truly thought of everything when he’d created this school for spies. “I thank you, that would be very much appreciated.”

  He nodded. “Shall we?”

  With a sweeping gesture of his arm, Mr. Richards allowed her to pass.

  The gravel of his front drive crunched beneath her half boots as she approached her future. The door swept open several long moments before she reached the top step of the grand marble stairs. A man in an official-looking butler’s uniform stood stoically just inside the door, while three footmen with powdered white wigs stood in waiting, presumably to take her pelisse or jump to do their master’s bidding.

  She stepped across the threshold and stopped to stare in wonder. The foyer was swathed in white and gilt, the marble floor reflected the light through the windows and the candles in the high chandelier. The ceiling stood two stories above her head; it was domed and ornately painted with cherubs and clouds, all surrounded with gil
t leafing. Her breath was nigh stolen from her very lungs.

  A sudden boom shook the ground beneath her feet and rattled the chandelier above her head, the dangling glass bulbs tinkling lightly. The explosion caused her to jump and, to her embarrassment, squeak. She spun around toward the still-open door. “What in heaven’s—”

  “Target practice, Miss Wright,” Mr. Richards said, a half-smile playing on his lips. “There are targets set up for any number of weapons practice. As you can hear, there is a class in session.”

  He winked at her and she was struck again at just how handsome the man was. He certainly had a devilishly charming air about him. And goodness, but he couldn’t be much older than Mary herself.

  “Isaac,” Mr. Richards said to a waiting footman, “see that Miss Wright’s belongings are brought to the Red Room.” He turned to her, his grin still in place and his hands linked behind his back. Clearly a man at his ease. “Our bedchambers are decorated in an array of colours, and yours is the only one swathed in red. Also, our students double as members of staff; mostly maids and footmen, unless they have a particular skill that they wish to expand upon.

  “I would take you on a tour of the classrooms, but I suspect that you would prefer to see the doctor and perhaps have a nap.”

  She touched the tip of her fingers to her swollen cheek. It had only been four hours since she had been so brutally handled and the mention of a nap nearly sent her into a swoon. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

  He inclined his head. “Of course. We will tour tomorrow. I will have Stevens here show you the way.” He motioned to another of the footmen nearby with only the slightest raising of his dark eyebrow. Amazing how some men could command with just one look. “Summon the physician, if you will,” he added.

  Voices came from down the hallway, but the others ignored them. Mary was curious, despite herself. What other manner of men and women had begun training to become spies? Were they all commoners? Gentry?

  “Welcome, Miss. I am Bramwell Stevens,” the charmingly handsome footman with beguiling golden eyes said. “Your room is this way.”

  He turned to leave, but was stopped by her softly inhaled exclamation.

  From the doorway to her right came three young men, all dressed finely in dark coats and trousers. But it was the man on the left of the three that made her heart stop within her chest and her stomach flip over and over in a tumbling roll. Lord, but the years had treated him well, indeed. Much to her consternation.

  “Ah,” Mr. Richards said unceremoniously, evidently unaware of the emotional turmoil churning within Mary. “Here are some of our students now.”

  The men looked up, then bowed appropriately to their superior.

  “Hugh Haddington, Colin Greene, and Gabriel Ashley, this is Miss Mary Wright. She will be joining our fascinating school. Miss Wright, Mr. Haddington, Colin Greene, and Mr. Ashley have been with us for just over six months.”

  Mary saw the precise moment that Gabe recognized her. His arched brown eyebrows reached to his hairline, his eyes wide as saucers, and his mouth opened in a silent O. It had been years since she had seen him, and despite her self-assertions that he no longer held any control over her, she felt a significant amount of hurt, anger, and she was ashamed to say, embarrassment, just at the sight of him. He had broken her heart as a young girl and clearly her heart had not yet recovered.

  “Charmed, Miss Wright,” Mr. Haddington bowed politely, an openly pleasant expression on his fine, pale features.

  Mary could not help but give him a small smile in return, her lips pulling and splitting unpleasantly.

  Mr. Greene grinned at her, his dark eyes dancing as he bowed. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”

  She curtseyed to both of the men. “Likewise, I’m sure, Mr. Haddington, Mr. Greene.”

  “What in the bloody hell is she doing here?” Gabe finally burst out, his fiercely scowling face a mottled red. His Scottish accent seemed to have apparently faded entirely over the past years.

  Anger took the foreground in Mary’s emotions. How dare he imply that she hadn’t the right to be there?

  “It is a pleasure to see you as well, Mr. Ashley,” she said, her voice brittle with sarcasm. “I am sure that Mr. Richards has a reason for recruiting me, just as he had a reason for recruiting you.”

  Gabriel ignored her to gaze accusingly at Mr. Richards. “You brought her here?”

  The others around them watched, enthralled, as Mary stepped forward, determined to have Gabriel speak directly to her. “Yes, he brought me here.”

  Still refusing to look at her, Gabe’s frown deepened. “Into this life, you would bring her? What could she possibly have that is of interest to you?”

  Mary’s gasp echoed through the grand foyer. Hurt lanced through her heart once more.

  This time Mr. Richards responded. “Not that it is your place to decide who is recruited and who is not, Mr. Ashley, but Miss Wright is not only an accomplished actress and well-versed, contributing member to society, but just hours ago she defended herself most admirably against the onslaught of three impudent ruffians. Her bravery, knowledge, and skill are to be commended, particularly for someone without the proper training. As you know, I do extensive research on my recruits. And I do not make mistakes.”

  Gabe’s eyes had widened further—if that were possible—as he turned his gaze to lie fully upon her. “Good God! What happened?”

  Gabriel’s gaze travelled over her torn and blood-soaked dress and pelisse, his face wreathed with horror. Mr. Haddington and Mr. Greene, however, gazed at her with growing admiration glittering in their eyes.

  Mary felt only hurt, anger, and exhaustion. She had slept but a mere three hours on the carriage ride here and nothing before that.

  “My pardon, Mr. Stevens,” Mary said, her spine stiffening, “but I should like to see my room now.”

  The young footman appeared beside her. “Of course, Miss Wright. Do follow me.”

  With her head held high, Mary straightened her skirts and followed Mr. Stevens up the grand, curving marble staircase. Damn Gabriel Ashley anyway.

  Chapter 6

  London, England, mid May 1815—the present

  Gabriel Ashley grimaced as he pulled his loose-fitting white muslin shirt over his head. His ribs continued to pain him something fierce. It had only been a sennight since the Bonaparte-supporting turncoat attacked him in the Mason family’s house in town and left him in a cellar to rot. Hydra had been perpetrating a plot to lure out traitors among Hydra’s men by using his sister by marriage as bait. Lord knew that had been a mistake. Lane Mason, the Earl of Devon, his staff, and family save for one sister, had withdrawn to a safe house while their home was filled with Secret Service spies.

  Gabe had been working as the cook during the scheme and had been jumped from behind while preparing tea. The stitched gash from his right ear lobe along his jaw line to his chin still stood out in stark relief from the drawn pallor of his skin. But it was not his jaw, head, or his ribs that caused the majority of his aches. No, indeed. That honour went entirely to Miss Mary Wright.

  He cursed to himself as he tucked the tails of his shirt into his trousers then slipped his brown waistcoat on and began to fasten the buttons. Ever since the attack on his person, Mary had visited him daily, her face wreathed in concern and her charms all but bursting the seams of her maid’s uniform.

  He really needed to get out of town. This was Mary, for God’s sake, a friend—if one could even consider their association a friendship—and nothing more. He had made the foolish decision many years ago to leave his childhood fancies behind, Miss Mary Wright included. He had thought himself far above the patrons of Carlisle.

  Soon after he had left Cumberland, however, Gabe had deeply regretted his decision. Mary’s friendship had been dearer to him than he had realized, but by then it had been too late. He had already lost her.

  Then confounded Richards had brought her to the school to become a spy. Damn the man, he knew how G
abe felt about her; Gabe had talked about her on the journey all the way from Scotland. The man had known what Mary had meant to him when he had recruited her and yet he’d done it anyway, the cur. Gabe didn’t want her there. She didn’t belong in this kind of life; she was so much better than any of them. She was better off without him, without spy work… Damn it, she was better off without him in her life. She should be living peacefully in some cottage somewhere, safe with a husband and a passel of children. Instead, she spent her days doing dangerous sneak-work, her afternoons and evenings working in the theatre in front of hundreds of salivating men, and her nights doing Lord knew what with her next mark. It made him ill. And, confound it, it made him angry.

  He met his own blue gaze in the mirror in the corner of his temporary guest bedchamber and ran a hand over his haphazardly curling brown hair. If he stayed in town, Mary’s attentions would surely kill him. Another curse escaped him.

  “If your injuries continue to pain you, Gabe, you are more than welcome to stay on,” a voice intoned from the open doorway.

  Gabe turned to see his superior, Sir Charles Bradley—or as they called him, Hydra—leaning against the doorframe.

  “Ta. I thank ye verra much, sir,” Gabe said, allowing his natural accent out and pulling on his mud-coloured woollen coat. “But I am well, I assure ye.” Or as well as he was going to be under the circumstances.

  “Even though Lord Devon, the rest of my family, and household servants are returned to town, there are those of my men that are staying on, if only until they receive another assignment. And of course, there are the other injured men who all have rooms here, or at the other town house. So believe me when I say, Gabe, that you may stay if you wish, whether in the kitchens with cook or as a guest in recovery. This house might be full, but I rather enjoy a busy home. You are more than welcome to remain.”

  Gabe nodded in acknowledgement and appreciation. “My thanks again, Hydra. But by my troth I am well. The others are far more injured than I; Barrows still has yet te awaken.”