Page 70 of To Love A Spy
How easily he assumed that aristocratic air of bored arrogance. As if mind and body were in another world. It was ingrained, of course.
And infuriating.
When he looked like that, some demon deep within seized hold of her and she couldn’t help wanting to provoke a fight. Anything to bring the blood to his cheeks.
“Or maybe you won’t be home at all,” she sneered. “After all, a brothel offers far more amenities than this mansion—warmed sheets, perfumed pillows, breakfast served in bed.”
He turned without responding to her childish taunt. The door latch closed with a discreet click.
Valencia picked up the book by her bedside, restraining the urge to throw it at the polished panels.
But Merlins don’t make a scene, she reminded herself.
Getting a grip on her wayward emotions, she drew a deep breath and settled down to read. The library had yielded several books on travel to the Orient. But she soon found herself too restless to concentrate on tales from the Silk Road. The printedwords seemed to twist and turn into a strange blur, as if challenging her to read between the lines.
She couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but something was rubbing her wrong. Something more chilling that a flare of ill-temper. In the past, she had learned to trust her intuition. But her sense for impending danger was likely dull from disuse.
“Don’t be a peagoose,” she muttered aloud. Melodrama belonged on the pages of a novel. Only ink and paper heroines acted like idiots.
Snapping shut the volume, she rose and began to pace the perimeter of her room. The enforced bed rest had her itching for action, that was all. Her nerves were wound too tight. Another few strides . . .
But try as she might, Valencia couldn’t outrace a growing feeling of unease. A darkness seemed to shadow her steps. The hairs on the back of her neck were suddenly standing on end.
No doubt because they were desperately in need of a brush or comb. However, sarcasm didn’t silence the stirring of intuition.
“Bloody hell.” The whispered oath punctuated the heated debate taking place in her head.
Orders were orders,scolded Reason.
But Lynsley had not given her a direct order to remain in the residence,retorted Rebellion.
It was implied,reminded Reason
It was left unsaid,snapped Rebellion.And a soldier was not dutybound to obey an unspoken command.
She made her decision, damning the consequences.
It took only a few minutes to don her dark trousers and shirt. A hooded cloak hung in her dressing room, and beneath it sat a soft-soled pair of shoes. Moving quickly, she stole into Lynsley’s bedchamber. The pistols he had purloined from the American consul were in the top dresser drawer. After adding a packetof extra powder and bullets to her pocket, she unlatched the casement window and stepped out to the window ledge.
Bathed in pearly starlight, the graceful spires and ornate rooftops of Paris looked sublimely beautiful. But beneath her feet lay a tangled web of dark streets, a reminder that a misstep could be deadly.
No matter how skilled, an agent in enemy territory could always use a back-up. Someone to watch his back.
She must not let her imagination run wild. Lynsley had far more experience than she did in foreign places. However, Valencia did not allow that fact to slow her down. Without a backward glance, she climbed down the copper drainpipe and traversed the alleyway.
Deciding that a hackney would draw too much attention, she hurried on foot through cobbled streets, keeping to the shadows. The rattle of metal and muskets helped her duck a patrol of soldiers. As for the other pedestrians, they paid her little heed in their own haste to complete their journeys unscathed. Even in the fancier parts of the city, Paris was dangerous after dark.
From her study of the maps, Valencia knew every passageway of the area by heart. After a small detour to avoid a group of brawling drunks, she had no trouble finding the right street.
With glittering lights ablaze in the shops and arcades, the Palais Royal stood out as a beacon of raucous activity amid its silent neighbors. Idlers loitered along its length, trading ribald taunts with ladybirds who paraded up and down the street, their plumage of mock diamonds and pearls waving brazenly in the night breeze.
Valencia climbed to a rooftop vantage point on one of the warehouses facing the main entrance. It was, she decided, rather entertaining to watch the arrivals of the carriages. Men brimming with hubris descended for a date with thevingt etrougetables in the gambling salon, while others hurried straight for the upper floors, which housed a nest of high-priced doves.
The amusement pinched from her mouth as those who had exhausted their luck at thetapis vertstumbled out in the throes of drink and despair. To chance everything on the turn of a card or the roll of dice was something she found hard to comprehend.
But then again, she, too, was a gambler—and playing for even greater odds.
On that sobering thought, Valencia spotted Lynsley strolling through the vaulted arcade with a group of gentlemen. His step was firm, his laughter controlled.
