A Game of Spies (Hearts in Hazard 2) Read online

  A Game of Spies

  Hearts in Hazard ~ Book 2

  by

  M. A. Lee

  A Game of Spies

  Copyright © 2015 Emily R. Dunn

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

  First electronic publishing rights: October 2015

  All rights are reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in 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.

  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.

  Published in the United States of America

  Cover Illustration by Deranged Doctor Design

  www.writersinkbooks.com

  [email protected]

  Acknowledgements

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

  And to Deranged Doctor Design, whose artistic designers

  always create inspiring covers that keep me writing.

  Novels by M.A. Lee

  the Hearts in Hazard ~ 12-book 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 ~ 3-book series

  Digging into Death

  Christmas with Death

  Portrait with Death (coming soon)

  Non-Fiction Works

  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 ~ book 1, Inspiration 4 Writers

  Other

  2 * 0 * 4 Lifestyle: A Planner for Living

  Table of Contents

  A Game of Spies

  Acknowledgements

  Novels by M.A. Lee

  Non-Fiction Works

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 ~ Friday, November 15, 1811

  Chapter 2 ~ Friday, November 15

  Chapter 3 ~ Friday, November 15

  Chapter 4 ~ Friday, November 15

  Chapter 5 ~ Saturday, November 23

  Chapter 6 ~ Saturday, November 23

  Chapter 7 ~ Sunday, November 24

  Chapter 8 ~ Monday, November 25

  Chapter 9 ~ Monday, November 25

  Chapter 10 ~ Tuesday, November 26

  Chapter 11 ~ Tuesday, November 26

  Chapter 12 ~ Thursday, November 28

  Chapter 13 ~ Friday, November 29

  Chapter 14 ~ Sunday, December 1

  Chapter 15 ~ Monday, December 2

  Chapter 16 ~ Tuesday, December 3

  Chapter 17 ~ Tuesday, December 3

  Chapter 18 ~ Wednesday, December 4

  Chapter 19 ~ Wednesday, December 4

  Chapter 20 ~ Wednesday, December 4

  Chapter 21 ~ Wednesday, December 4

  Chapter 22 ~ Thursday, December 5

  Chapter 23 ~ Thursday, December 5

  Epilogue ~ Thursday, December 12

  Thank you for reading The Game of Spies.

  Hearts in Hazard by M.A. Lee

  Nonfiction by M.A. Lee

  Pen Names of M.A. Lee

  Chapter 1 ~ Friday, November 15, 1811

  Josette did not know if Lord Giles Hargreaves, younger son of the Marquess of Grasmere, would return to their salon tonight. He had absented himself for a fortnight.

  She hoped he would appear.

  She did not think he would.

  She had one memory all her own of him, a memory she did not have to share with her widowed sister-in-law Celeste. They had partnered at whist, and early in the game he had looked up and smiled at her. Smiled because he had realized that together they outmatched their opponents. Smiled in a way that lit his green eyes and caused her heartbeat to speed up. When the rout was over and he had pocketed his winnings, he had bowed over her hand. “Would you partner with me again, Mademoiselle Sourantine, the next time I attend your salon?” When she agreed, he had again smiled then kissed the hand he still held. Then he had walked away.

  Josette did not know how to gauge his interest. Had he only liked her card play? Then why had he exchanged such long glances with her? Why had he kissed her hand, when etiquette required only a simple bow? Yet he left without looking back, as if once he left the table she was far from his mind.

  Two weeks and no appearance. She definitely was far from his mind.

  Yet she could not forget the kiss that had graced her bare skin. She played gloveless, the better to shuffle and deal the cards. His kiss to her hand had sent tremors along every nerve ending. Once she had retired to her chamber, she touched the back of her hand to her cheek, like an infatuated girl instead of a young lady of four and twenty. Even now, a fortnight later, her skin still tingled. Even now, she still had to rebuke that inclination toward infatuation.

  Lord Hargreaves would probably not appear tonight. Hadn’t she heard at Monday’s salon that he was gone from London?

  Yet she dressed with care. She chose the brown moiré silk that turned her eyes toward the blue rather than grey. Reilly arranged her hair in curls tumbling from the crown of her head. She touched the silver cross her father had given her but chose to wear amber eardrops that glittered and danced when she turned her head. The maid pinned matching brilliants in her flaxen hair.

  She hurried to join Celeste in their dual role of hostesses. She usually delayed going downstairs until the first guests were arriving. She hated the receiving line, but Celeste demanded it at the start of every salon. Unnerved by Celeste’s tirade this morning, Josette only wanted to placate her sister-in-law. After all, she had caused the outburst.

  The housekeeper Mrs. Bridgerton had brought the bills accumulating from the salons. Appalled at the amounts, Josette had approached Celeste. Instead of addressing the debts, her belle-soeur resorted to a rant about the additional costs since Josette and her brother had come to London. A half-hour later, she stormed out while Josette sank into a chair and stared at her shaking hands. No, she did not want another tirade from Celeste.

  As she slipped into place at the top of the grand staircase, Celeste gave her a sparkling glance. “You have all the flags flying, is that not the expression?”

  “It is.” She curtsied to Lord Wynstane and greeted him warmly. When he passed on to the drawing room, she turned to her sister-in-law. “I come nowhere near your fireworks, Celeste. You look glorious tonight.” Indeed, she did, in a bronzed red silk that echoed the flames in her hair.

  “Bien sur. I am expecte
d to be glorious. I did not think that soie marron would suit you. You show it to advantage.”

  Josette breathed easier. Celeste seemed to have forgiven her intrusion into the household management.

  Several parties entered at once, and they had no further opportunity to talk. When the line thinned, Celeste stepped closer and spoke in an undertone. “You fly the flag tonight for a reason, ma chere? Is it that you expect to bring Monsieur Kennit or Lord Musgrove ‘up to scratch’? They are your usual partners.”

  Josette had lost the trail of the conversation and had to think quickly. “Don’t be silly, Celeste. They are only enamored of my card play—unlike the members of your court. Have any new swains declared themselves this week?”

  “Charles Bray.”

  “Mr. Bray? I do not know him.”

  “His father is a minister of Parliament, newly elected. They attended the salon on Monday.”

  “And the son fell in love with you immediately?”

  “Enfin, the evening begins. We have a crowd tonight. I shall watch, ma belle-soeur, to see the man you catch with your finery. Va-tu, maintenant. The tables will be filling up.”

  Josette withdrew to the enfilade that became the card room during the salons. All the doors between the petite salon that overlooked the garden and the front room that had been her father’s study stood open. The enfilade matched the grande salon in length. That formal room, with its tall mirrors and music dais, was reserved for dancing.

  She strolled through the enfilade. The card room with its score of tables was her appointed hostess’ duty for the twice-weekly salons. She greeted the people she had missed earlier and spoke a warmer welcome to the newcomers. At the back of the petite salon, next to the terrace door, three men waited at her usual table. Her usual opponents, Lord Musgrove and Mr. Kennit, had already paired up. She hid her chagrin that she must again partner Lord Costell.

  The two peers stood at her approach. Musgrove assisted her with her chair. Josette cast a brilliant smile around the table as she drew off her silk gloves. “Dare I ask if you wish a game other than whist?”

  Musgrove, almost seated, checked. Kennit laughed. “Never fear, Miss Sourantine.”

  “Unless our fair goddess favors another game tonight?”

  “But I came for whist,” Costell protested. “I had a good game at Waite’s this week—.”

  “By a good one, you mean they didn’t fleece you?” Kennit, older than Costell by a decade, looked ready to laugh at the cub. “How many rubbers did you win? One or two?”

  “Three,” Costell retorted.

  Josette intervened before Kennit pointed out the errors of thinking a win at a gambling den translated into competency. “Shall we play, gentlemen? Lord Musgrove, will you keep the tally tonight? I would rather not.”

  “I am here to serve our goddess of fortune.”

  She laughed at his extravagance and picked up the cards. “Usual stakes, gentlemen?”

  As the next hour progressed, she noticed everyone who came in, but Lord Hargreaves did not appear. She had felt so certain that he would attend tonight. So much for certainty. She laughed at herself.

  “Good hand, Miss Sourantine?”

  Tobias Kennit eyed her over his cards.

  She shook her head, as much to banish her foolish hopes as to answer his question. “A stray thought, Mr. Kennit. Lord Costell, it is your play.”

  The young man threw the queen trump to match her play on Kennit’s knave heart. Boy, she amended her thought, not man. He is as old as my brother Albert and yet half his age. Will he never learn to think about more than his own hand in the game?

  Lord Musgrove slid the card back. “You must play a heart, Costell. I know you still have hearts.”

  Face reddened, he threw out the ace, taking the hand she had already won with the trump.

  Josette hid a sigh as he led with the club queen, a suit that had not yet been played. Kennit topped him. She played her only club, a nine. Musgrove finished the hand with a club trey then slid the trick to his partner. Kennit played the club eight, she trumped low, Musgrove played club seven, and Costell played the club king to win the hand she had already won.

  Josette sighed again and studied her hand, wondering how deeply in arrears she would fall before her partner decided he’d played enough cards and returned to Celeste’s court.

  . ~ . ~ . ~ .

  Lieutenant Colonel Giles Hargreaves, son of the Marquess of Grasmere, formerly of His Majesty’s 57th Regiment, arrived more than fashionably late to the Sourantines’ Friday salon. The crush in the wide entrance had dispersed. Having left off his vivid red regimentals, few people noticed his slow climb up the grand staircase to the reception area centering the first floor. One young man did. Tall and lean, he lifted a hand in a salute that drew Giles to a halt.

  “Hargreaves!” Michael Armitage extricated himself from his friends and crossed the diagonal tiles patterned in cream and black. “When did you return?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “All go well?” Like Giles, he worked for Sir Roger Nazenby, tracking French spies and English traitors. Unlike Giles, he hadn’t spent over a decade in the military. Armitage felt completely at ease in London’s whirl.

  “Partly. Our bird escaped the cage. She’s to be left loose a while longer. Sir Roger wants to discover who teaches her the songs she loves to sing.”

  He spoke obliquely for any listeners, yet Armitage understood. “We’ll find plenty of singers here. These salons draw from all levels of society. That’s partly the attraction. A society doyenne like the dowager Eaton can rub elbows with a rum cove like Robert LeBrun.”

  “Has Sir Roger arrived?”

  He nodded toward the drawing room that their French hostess called the grande salon. “Asked for you, half-hour ago.”

  Giles grimaced then turned obediently toward the large room. On the threshold he paused, watching dancers turn through a set as intricate as a battlefield maneuver.

  A world of difference drove his reason for attending tonight’s salon. O the last occasion he had passed the evening in idle conversation with a wide range of London’s ton. He had enjoyed matching wits with Josette Sourantine over a game of whist. And he had relished his light flirtation with the young widow Celeste Sourantine.

  Tonight the widowed beauty danced with a young man who looked like one of London’s golden peers. His gaze sharpened as she flirted with her partner. This time he viewed her with a jaded eye. This time he knew she spied for France and that the traitor who supplied her with information must do so at these salons.

  “The beauty is in great form tonight.”

  Giles turned to the man who had appeared at his elbow. Sir Roger Nazenby, affecting shades of grey in his attire, did not take his gaze from the dancers. Giles looked back and let himself appreciate the Titian beauty of their hostess. “Who is her partner?”

  “Westover’s son. Lord Westover, you remember, is attached to the War Office. One of the chosen few who reviews the despatches to be sent to Wellington. Keep an eye on how lightly he steps.” The spycatcher’s quiet manner hid a razor-sharp mind, and his conversation veiled much more than it said.

  “Too obvious. Too easy,” he said in code. Too obvious that Westover’s heir was the spy’s source. Too easy in that his mission was over before it began. As the couple interacted, Giles judged that Westover did not look as enthralled as many of the beautiful spy’s court were.

  “The father enjoys his ministry speeches.” Then, at a tangent, he asked, “And you, Hargreaves, do you enjoy being out of your regimentals?”

  In truth he felt lost, as if he no longer knew his home’s location. A red coat with gold braids and brass buttons had defined him for so many years that he had seen the uniform before he saw. Tonight, after he dismissed his valet, he stared in the mirror at a stranger in dark clothes and white shirt and ascot. His decommissioning papers and Nazenby’s order of transfer had arrived while he was on the coast. He had read them twice while t
he earth quaked

  He should have predicted the decommissioning, especially since his slow-to-heal wound had kept him desk-bound in England longer than he liked. The regiment needed able-bodied officers. In the last month, however, his stamina had returned, and he began to consider a return to Spain. For the last two months he had worked for the spycatcher, creating a network of men to discover the spies who supplied Napoleon with information about Lord Wellington’s campaign in Spain and Portugal. Through a fellow veteran he had found both spy and her transport to France.

  Yet that hadn’t been enough. Now Nazenby wanted the spy’s source for the War Office memoranda. And he wanted Giles Hargreaves to continue working for him. Giles had refused a roundabout request from the older man. He hadn’t anticipated that the spycatcher would move the mountainous War Office to have Giles in his full command.

  As if Giles had answered, Nazenby added, “You will find it difficult to distinguish yourself with Madame Sourantine. Her admirers press close. It is the French flavor, don’t you think?”

  “Part of her attraction, undoubtedly, but not the greatest.”

  The older man’s eyes narrowed as he watched the French spy dance around her partner. “You are not as handsome without your regimentals.”

  “Or as heroic. Merely handicapped.” He leaned heavily on the cane he didn’t need. His leg worked fine unless he forced it a long distance or into the required turns of a dance. “Doubly so, for I am unable to partner her in a dance. Yet I have it on good authority that our hostess is actively pursuing the son of a marquess. Behold, her wish.”

  Nazenby’s mouth quirked. “Ah, still useful, then.” His conversation took another lightning turn that illuminated his advance planning. “Your father the marquess, has he settled for the winter at Grasmere?”

  “Yes. He is requesting my presence for the holidays.”

  “We shall see. I would not hesitate to use Grasmere, Hargreaves.”

  “I understand, sir.” His father would not like it. His mother would be disappointed.