A Game of Secrets (Hearts in Hazard Book 1) Read online

  A Game of Secrets

  Hearts in Hazard / Book 1

  by

  M.A. Lee

  A Game of Secrets

  Copyright © 2015 Emily R. Dunn /

  Doing Business as M. A. Lee & Writers’ Ink

  First electronic publishing rights: October 2015

  All rights are reserved.

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  THIS BOOK IS A WORK of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written consent from Writers’ Ink, except in the case of brief quotations for critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s or Writers’ Ink permission. Contact [email protected] for further information.

  Copyright infringement is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Published in the United States of America

  Cover Illustration by Deranged Doctor Design

  www.writersinkbooks.com

  [email protected]

  Books by M.A. Lee

  Fiction

  The Hearts in Hazard series

  A Game of Secrets

  A Game of Spies

  A Game of Hearts

  The Dangers of Secrets

  The Dangers for Spies

  The Dangers to Hearts

  The Key to Secrets

  The Key for Spies

  The Key with Hearts

  The Hazard of Secrets

  The Hazard for Spies

  The Hazard with Hearts

  Into Death Trilogy with Isabella Newcombe

  Digging into Death

  Christmas with Death

  Portrait with Death

  Non-Fiction for Writers

  Think like a Pro Writer series

  Think like a Pro ~ 1

  Think / Pro: A Planner for Writers ~ 2

  Old Geeky Greeks: Write Stories with Ancient Techniques ~ 3

  Discovering Your Novel ~ 4

  Discovering Characters ~ 5

  Discovering Your Plot ~ 6

  Discovering Your Author Brand ~ 7

  Discovering Sentence Craft ~ 8

  Just Start Writing ~ Inspiration 4 Writers 1

  Acknowledgements

  My especial thanks to Diane and Steve, best first readers in the world.

  And to Deranged Doctor Design, whose artistic designers

  created an aesthetic concept that captures the essence

  of the Hearts in Hazard series.

  Beautiful covers by inspired professionals

  who are wonderful to work with.

  Table of Contents

  A Game of Secrets

  Books by M.A. Lee

  Acknowledgements

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 ~ Early October 1811

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Thank You for Reading A Game of Secrets.

  Hearts in Hazard by M.A. Lee ~ 12 Books set in Regency England

  A Game of Spies

  A Game of Hearts

  Chapter 1 ~ Early October 1811

  Pleased that she had eluded her pursuer, Kate Charteris sped around the corner only to crash into a living wall.

  The collision dazed her. Her hat and valise flew away. Strong hands caught and steadied her. Gasping, Kate hung in that grip until the world stopped wobbling. Then she looked up at the wall of man she had crashed into.

  He had a square jaw that bespoke a stubborn resolve, evidenced by the powerful grip that still kept her upright. He had clear blue eyes that surveyed her with concern. At some point he had spent months under a sun hotter than England’s feeble orb. That stronger sun had bronzed his skin, although its fading color bespoke months out of its brighter glare. He might not wear the bright regimental uniform that his friend did, but his coat had the military cut that decommissioned officers favored.

  He had served as a soldier. Daughter of a colonel, she not only recognized the marks but they gladdened her. Kate’s expression must have lightened, for he smiled, increasing his good looks. She smiled back. And in that barest second, a spark of attraction jolted between them. His fingers tightened. He drew her a fraction closer.

  A horse neighed. A simple sound, it reminded Kate of the mail coach she desperately had to reach. She drew back and looked past him, down the street at the posting inn. Then she tried to step back, out of his grip. “Sir, I thank you for saving me from a fall on these cobbles. I am fine now. Please let me go.”

  “You certainly scurried around that corner. Where are you going?”

  “Please,” she repeated and wriggled in his grasp. “Please! I have to get away.”

  Those were the wrong words to use. His smile vanished. Those blue eyes glinted with ice. He glanced behind her, looking for the pursuit that had propelled her around the corner. “Who’s after you?”

  The double shock of the collision and her attraction had befuddled her wits. Quickly she amended her plea, trying to dampen her urgency. “I must take the next coach from the Running Hart. I am quite recovered. You may release me.”

  Even as the words spilled out, she realized they were too late. He ignored her request, fulfilling the square jaw’s promise. His gaze flashed to his friend, who stepped to the corner and searched the street. Heart racing, Kate looked as well. The officer shook his head, and she thanked God. No one at the Queen’s Crossing Inn had seen her slip out.

  She looked back at her ‘rescuer’. That icy gaze examined her tumbled hair and her crumpled green pelisse and the mud that stained her hem. To escape her cousin’s house, she had walked across the fields to reach the coach road. Not once in her journey from Howarth to London and here to Ipswich had she found time to soak the dirt from her clothes. Yet for all her precautions, Cousin Oliver had quickly found her in London. Only by the merest chance had she evaded him at her solicitor’s office in London. Even as the posting coach had rolled from the innyard, he had appeared. And now in Ipswich, he had arrived in the night, only a few hours behind her. Only time had favored her escape.

  God has an odd sense of humor. I refuse to marry my cousin the tyrant, I finally manage to elude him, and now a man I am immediately attracted to delays me. Why, oh God, why? She regretted his lightning-quick reflexes. While they had saved her from the cobbles, he still held her, trapped.

  “Who’s after you? A constable?”

  Indignant, she retorted, “Indeed, not! I would never—.”

  “Your husband?”

  “I am not married, sir.”

  “A lady as pretty as you should be.” He released one arm to pick up the chain around her neck. His fingers threaded along the length and located the cross that had been flung over her shoulder by the
collision. She watched him study the ruby cross. His eyes lifted to hers. Kate couldn’t read his thoughts. She only knew that his eyes lost that cold glint, and once again their heavenly blue threatened her reason. He restored the cross to its place above her heart. “Who’s after you?” he asked a third time.

  “Who are you to question me, sir? You are no more than a stranger.”

  “A stranger who would be willing to help you.”

  His compassion threatened to undermine her determination. Kate wiggled again. “Please release me. I demand that you release me. I must take that coach.”

  “The cat has claws,” he murmured but obeyed. “You need not fret that you will miss the coach. We came from the Hart. The coachman was just sitting down to breakfast. He won’t hurry over it. We have a few minutes yet.”

  “I thank you.” Now she regretted her snappish tone, although it had finally won her freedom. She controlled the urge to smooth her wrinkled pelisse and dress. “And you are kind to offer help, but you are a stranger.”

  “A problem easily remedied.” He swept her a bow. “I am Major Anthony Farraday, lately of the 57th Foot. My friend is Lord Giles Hargreaves, a lieutenant-colonel of the 57th.”

  “Your servant, ma’am.”

  Now that her vision wasn’t tunneled onto the rescuer, she saw that his friend leaned on a cane. And he proffered her wide-brimmed hat that had fallen off in the collision.

  “May we escort you to the Running Hart?”

  “No. Thank you. I can manage quite well.” She settled the summer straw into place and tied the ribbon so it wouldn’t fly off a second time.

  Anthony Farraday hefted her valise. “No wonder you barreled around that corner. This is a battering ram.”

  Kate reached for it, but he wasn’t ready to release her possessions. “I do need to be on the next coach,” she reminded.

  “Ah, yes, your escape.”

  “And our mission, Farraday. We mustn’t forget our own concern.” His friend’s flat voice weighted the statement.

  Anthony Farraday surveyed her then shook his head. “No, Hargreaves, we haven’t found our spy. We have had a different kind of fortune.” He turned back to Kate. “I should carry this to the coach for you. It is too heavy.”

  Their exchange piqued her interest, but she had no time to pursue it. She reached again for her valise. “I carried it miles the other day; I can carry it this short distance.”

  “Don’t batter anyone else,” he teased, a glint in his eyes that was neither cold nor compassionate.

  As she took the valise’s weight, Kate gifted herself with a last look into his heavenly blue eyes. “Thank you, Major Farraday.”

  “Will you not tell me your name?”

  She shook her head. Her pursuer had traced every crumb she had dropped on her journey from Howarth to London and then Ipswich. She dared leave no more.

  Her refusal dented his smile. He shook his head once than placed his hand on his heart. “Go with God.”

  She went.

  His blessing had evoked tears. She battled them as she hurried away.

  Kate reached the Running Hart as the other passengers climbed into the mail-coach. She paid the fare then squeezed into the coach’s dark confines. The valise had to go on the floor, so she propped her feet on it.

  And then she puzzled over how her cousin had found her. She had tried not to be memorable at any of her stops. This morning only God’s grace helped her identify Oliver’s voice before he saw her. He had planted himself in the center of the inn’s hall, blocking all passage as he addressed the host. Coming from the innyard she had heard his ingratiating wheedle describe every part of her appearance, even her green pelisse and her sprigged gown. To know how she was dressed, he must have enlisted the aid of her maid Edith.

  She could not hold that help against Edith. Once thwarted, Oliver rapidly turned from oily smoothness to booming tyrant.

  Unlike Anthony Farraday. He had shifted from compassion to suspicion and back, all with the lightning speeds similar to that displayed by the hardened campaigners who had served with her father in Portugal and Spain.

  When he had looked for the constable on her heels, she had sensed the cold steel in him. Then the danger receded. Yet neither tenderness nor threat had he released to his voice. His grip had bruised her only a little. Oliver, thwarted in his plans, had resorted to locked doors then slaps and, finally, to his fist.

  Hearing Oliver this morning, all the fear had rushed back. She would still be teetering on the inn’s doorstep if the lately acquired anger against her mistreatment had not flooded her as well. That anger kept her determined to escape him. Slowly she had backed away. More precious minutes had ticked agonizingly on as she retrieved her valise from the northbound coach and slipped away to the street. A local man had directed her to the eastbound coach from the Running Hart. She prayed to God that her wasted coachfare—money that she sorely needed—would send Cousin Oliver north in a futile search.

  Should the Queen’s Crossing host remember her, he could say only that she had asked about the accommodation coach to Yarmouth. Oliver might spend many fruitless days searching there and further north. He might not consider that she would take the cheap mail coach. She did not even know her current destination.

  Kate squirmed into a corner as the last passengers crowded in. The coach started with a jerk. She braced against the wooden seat and tried to remember the exact color of Anthony Farraday’s eyes. They had the clear brilliance of today’s October sky. Lighter than that, with shards of light radiating from the dark pupil. Like quicksilver they had changed with his mood.

  She scolded herself for the futile exercise. Never again would she see Major Anthony Farraday—but the memory of his eyes pleasured her for several hours.

  . ~ . ~ . ~ .

  “No distractions, Farraday.”

  “She would be a lovely distraction, wouldn’t she?” Tony watched the young woman hurry away. The heavy valise dragged down one shoulder, but her pace didn’t slow. She had been more anxious than fearful. And determined to catch her coach. And her eyes held a sadness so deep, it looked drowning. “You should know me better, Hargreaves. I stayed ahead of our enemy in Portugal and Spain. Not many of Wellesley’s young officers can say that. Nothing distracted me then. Nothing will now.”

  “On campaign every person and tree and rock, the very air itself reminded us that home was far away. Here, surrounded by the sights and sounds of home, here it will be harder to remember you have a mission.”

  The lovely distraction reached the Running Hart without looking back, and Tony turned to his friend. “I was born to the Army, Hargreaves, raised to follow the drum. The Army is the sights and sounds I remember. This—,” he gestured to the people chattering like birds as they swept their storefronts. Glistening windowpanes displayed stacks of wares. A rider turned onto the street, the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves creating a rhythm for the shopkeepers. “These are not the sights and sounds of my life. Don’t scowl so. I’m only quibbling. Are you certain you don’t want to talk inside?”

  “I can walk,” his friend snapped.

  Tony remembered the long days when he had struggled to recover from his own wounds. He had hated any hint of molly-coddling. Only the doctor’s threats that too much activity would slow his recovery had kept him from pushing from morning till night to restore his strength and balance and agility.

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t walk, Hargreaves. I’m thirsty, and there’s a coffeehouse across the way.”

  Tension eased from his friend’s face. He started walking, hampered by the stiff leg he supported with the cane. Tony fell into step beside him.

  “Walking serves my purpose,” Hargreaves explained. He rolled the stiff leg out and achieved a smoother pace. On this bright day with its breath of winter, only the shopkeepers were out on the streets. “Fewer people will overhear us on these side streets. Should anyone follow too closely, we will notice them.”

  “Afraid of ea
vesdroppers?”

  “A very real worry, Farraday.”

  “Then my information wasn’t enough.” He clenched his fist in frustration.

  And the movement recalled small bones held in his grasp. When the young lady had erupted around the corner, he had reflexively grabbed her. Her summer-thin coat had given no protection from his grip. He had surely bruised her, but she had shown no signs of pain.

  Hargreaves hadn’t noticed his distraction. “I met with our other men yesterday. They had nothing to report. Your information seems to be our only lead. I must return to London today. I want you to return with me. I want you to lay your information before my superiors at the War Office.”

  “I must visit Melton Hall first. I’ll ride to London on Thursday.”

  “Friday will do, but no later, Farraday. And have your arguments clearly outlined. We had theorized that this spy uses the smugglers for transport. If you are correct, we need to shift more revenue cutters from Kent to Essex. The Channel ships are monitoring the runs to Calais and Dunkirk. I have no doubt that we can intercept any message the spy sends to France, but we want the man himself. We must know his launching point. I believe you have found that point, but my superiors need more convincing.”

  “Are they convinced that he personally carries the War Office despatches to France?” Hargreaves didn’t answer, and Tony scowled, realizing that both parts of his theory had been rejected. “Your superiors do not believe the spy is French, do they?”

  “We debated your conjectures, rather heatedly on my side, old friend, but no one could name an emigré with access to the War Office or admission to Lord Westover’s residence.”

  “The spy must be an emigré, someone who has old connections to France that our newly-placed eyes will not see. Someone who hopes that Napoleon will restore what the Revolutionary Terror confiscated from his family.”

  “I tried, Farraday. They accept your theory that the spy may use smugglers for transport. They even accept that it’s a small gang. Beyond that—.” Hargreaves shrugged. “Without more evidence, I cannot sway them.”