Page 13 of Irresistible
Her mood sank. He wasn’t going to tell her why Evie had appeared worried. “I understand.” She really did, even if she didn’t like it.
“But you raise an excellent opportunity for us to devise our history together—how we met, when we married, where we are from, all of that. Shall we begin?”
Jess shook away her disappointment as she angled herself toward him. “Yes. Should I take notes?” If so, she’d need to go inside and fetch parchment and a quill.
He slowly shook his head, the bridge of his nose creasing the barest amount. “Never, ever write anything down.”
She frowned at him. “I’m afraid I must when I’m solving a cipher.”
“Other than that. And then you’ll have to burn your writings after so our intelligence isn’t discovered.”
“You people burn everything,” she muttered.
“Wepeople, I think you mean. Yes, we burn everything that might leave a trail or a clue.”
She couldn’t argue with that even if it was troublesome. What if there wasn’t a fire or flint nearby?
Jess turned her mind to their faux history. “Let’s say we met at church,” she suggested, using her Welsh accent. That was where her mother had tried to ensnare a husband for her last autumn. Thankfully, the gentleman had avoided the trap as he’d been far more interested in someone else.
Fallin looked at her with a blend of surprise and appreciation. “Southern Wales. Very good,” he responded mimicking the accent to perfection. “We shall hail from a small village that is unpronounceable.”
“That’s believable, considering it’s Wales.”
He smiled. “Just so.” He offered a timeline for their courtship, and they went on for a quarter hour mapping out details.
Jess found it most exhilarating. She doubted she’d forget a thing. Certainly, she would try hard not to.
“I think that’s enough for today,” he said, reverting to his Scottish brogue. “It’s best not to overwhelm our minds with too much to retain.” Standing, he helped her up and escorted her back to the house.
She looked over at him as they neared the doorway. “How else are we to meet over the next several days?”
“At Lucien’s, more than likely. Lady Pickering will let you know when we’ll meet next.” He paused, turning toward her. “You’re certain you’re up to this? We’re asking a great deal of you. Most people wouldn’t want to take this kind of risk.”
In that moment, she realized she’d allowed her excitement to overshadow any concern she had about danger. Perhaps it was because she wouldn’t be alone. She’d be with an experienced investigator. “I think I’d like to learn to shoot,” she blurted.
He blinked, appearing surprised. “I’ll try to find a way to ensure that happens. You are an interesting woman, Miss Goodfellow.”
“You really ought to call me Jess since we are going to be working so closely together.”
“Then you must call me Dougal. When we are alone, that is.”
“That is nearly all we will ever be,” she said with a nervous laugh. She couldn’t decide what was more harrowing: pretending to be his wife or conducting an investigation into his loyalty without getting caught. He was a professional in this work, and she was a complete novice.
“True,” he responded. “And in a little more than a week, we’ll be married. I hope you’re ready.”
Jess hoped she would be too.
Chapter4
As Dougal entered the Phoenix Club on Tuesday evening, his gaze naturally rose to the large painting that Lucien had commissioned. His eye always went to the lower left, where the artist had painted him, Lucien, and their friend Tobias, who was now the Earl of Overton. Another of their friends, Maximilian Hunt, the Viscount Warfield, rode a horse toward them. The image never failed to make Dougal smile as he climbed the stairs.
The last five days had passed in a frenzy of activity. Aside from meeting with Jess three times at Lucien’s, Dougal had tried to continue his investigation to determine how two of his most recent past missions had ended so badly, but he hadn’t been allowed access to any documents within the Foreign Office.
Both had transpired after Napoleon had returned to power. The first was a coded message Dougal had fetched from the Isle of Wight and brought to the Foreign Office in London. Only, the message had contained gibberish. Oliver had interrogated Dougal for many hours, asking how he’d received it and whether it was ever out of his possession, plus dozens of other questions. They’d reviewed his movements at least five times. Had it been planted, or had the real message been stolen and replaced? Whatever the reason, the mission had been a total failure.
The second was similar—a pickup from a known courier. Dougal had been dispatched to Bournemouth to meet with Giraud, whom he’d discovered dead with his throat slit.
After that, Dougal couldn’t ignore that something—or someone—wasn’t right.
