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 Lane Mason, the Earl of Devon, his staff, and family save for one sister, had withdrawn to a safe house while their home was filled with Secret Service spies.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.
Hereallyneeded to get out of town. This was Mary, for God’s sake, a friend—ifone 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 Gabe felt about her; Gabe had talked about her on the journey all the way from Scotland. The man hadknownwhat 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 withouthimin 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.”
They stood in silence for a moment, each pondering their own worry for the other fallen. During the scheme, several of Gabe’s fellow agents—and Gabe himself—had their identities compromised…and then the attacks had begun. Young Harris, a new recruit just out of intelligence training, had been shot in the shoulder on his first assignment. Greene had been stabbed in the back, and Barrows suffered with a severe head injury.
Gratefully, the French spies responsible had been dealt with appropriately and would no longer be a threat to the other Crown spies or Hydra and his new family.
Hydra’s blond eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, well…” he cleared his throat. “If you are well enough, preparation for a new assignment in Eastbourne begins tomorrow. If you decline I have another man in mind.”
The hum of anticipation buzzed through Gabe’s veins. He needed to get out of town, to get into something sneaky and dirty, to get into the thick of enemy territory and take them out from within. And…to get away from Mary. Damn but she distracted him something fierce.
“Aye, I am well enough te take on an assignment.”
Hydra jerked his shaggy blond head in a single nod. “Very good, then. It’s a partnered assignment and the briefing is tomorrow at dawn.”
Gabe’s lips curved upward in a grin. “I will see ye then, sir.”
“Oh, and Gabe?”
“Aye?”
“You had better practice your English accent. You are going to need it.” Then he was gone, the small guest bedchamber in the Devon town house empty once more.
A log popped in the fireplace behind him and Gabe turned to smile at his reflection in the tall mirror, the act pulling painfully at the stiches along his jaw. But he paid it no mind. He was going on another assignment. Aninfiltrationassignment if Hydra’s warning to practice his accent was any indication. Damn, but he hadn’t done infiltration in some time. He couldn’t deny that he was excited.
He’d become used to speaking with an English accent while he was in school, and he often used it during assignments. It had gotten to the point where his habitual accent was a mixture of Scottish and English, though when emotions were involved, he switched fully to Scottish.
“Very,” he practiced to his reflection as he tugged the final knot in his starched white cravat. “Didn’t. You.”
“I haven’t heard your English accent in some time.”
Gabe’s heart slammed in his chest at the cultured female voice behind him. He swung around.
“Damnit, Mary, donnae sneak up on me like tha’!”
