Under Gibson’s tutelage, she’d learned that the art of men’s dressing lay in the details. Thus, she made sure that fine cufflinks, cravat pins, and other stylish accoutrements found their way into her husband’s wardrobe on a regular basis. Gibson, for his part, employed those items to stark yet superb effect when grooming Marcus.
One of Penny’s secret pleasures was knowing that beneath the plain, crisp linen and somber waistcoat lay a virile and hot-blooded man, a husband who, after a dozen years of marriage, still liked to awaken her in the manner of a randy newlywed…
Marcus set down his cup, the slight furrow between his dark brows conveying his concentration on the task at hand. Her heart fluttered as she watched him. From the moment they’d met, her soul had recognized him as hers, and the intervening years had only heightened her attraction to him.
At forty-one, Marcus was even more compelling to her senses than he’d been at five-and-twenty. He’d grown leaner, harder, the threading of grey in his thick, dark bronze hair adding to his distinguished air. His hawkish features might not be classically handsome, but their fierceness spoke of integrity and authority. The strength of moral character that had made him a military hero. In fact, his visage might have been described as overly harsh were it not for the subtle laugh lines around his eyes and mouth—lines, she liked to think, that she and their three sons had contributed to.
Marcus’ gaze suddenly shifted to her; the smile in those steel blue depths made her sex quiver. He reached over and gave her hand a husbandly squeeze. He returned to opening his letters while her heart continued to pound like that of a silly debutante.
As Lady Pandora Blackwood, she’d worked diligently to build her reputation. Invitations to her soirees and balls were the most sought-after in all the ton. Society wags had decreed her one of the most sophisticated and glamorous hostesses in the Top Ten Thousand. Everyone knew she and Marcus had a love match, but what would they say if they knew how intemperate her feelings for him were beneath her urbane surface? How madly she loved him? How one touch from him made her want to climb astride him at the breakfast table, never mind the servants who could come in at any moment, and beg him to take her then and there?
He made love to you just an hour ago, you greedy wanton.
Her cheeks warmed. Other parts, too.
She went back to the invitations even as naughty images danced through her head. She and Marcus shared a passionate marriage bed—this morning being a case in point—but certain lines should not be crossed. She’d dedicated the last dozen years to making herself into the kind of wife that Marcus wanted. To becoming his ideal, his every fantasy. While ardor was all well and good, a man like Marcus also needed a wife who was a lady.
It was Miss Pandora Hudson, only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Harry Hudson, of the Devonshire Hudsons, that he’d fallen in love with, after all. That was who he’d proposed to and married. Not Pandora Smith, former secret agent and bastard daughter of a whore.
As Lady Pandora, she’d made her husband happy. She would continue to make him happy. To do that, she would act like the lady she’d become… or at least save her carnal impulses for bedtime.
“What the devil?”
Marcus’ oath startled her as did the clattering of his letter opener against his breakfast plate. Her gaze flew to him; never before had she seen such an expression on his face. Typically, he was a man of composure, yet now his eyes blazed with rage. A letter was clenched in his fist; throwing it down, he shoved away from the table and rose abruptly to his feet. He stood, glowering at the offending piece of paper.
“What is it?” she said in surprise.
“I’ll have the hide of the bounder who wrote this,” Marcus vowed grimly. “I’ll hunt him down, and, by Jove, he’ll answer for this slander. By the time I’m done with him, he’ll wish he’d never been born—”
“What are you talking about, my love?” She reached over and plucked up the crumpled missive. She smoothed it out—and her throat closed.
Handwriting she’d never forget. Words that ripped the veil from her world.
The Spectre, she thought numbly. Getting his revenge from the grave.
“Penny?”
She turned her dazed eyes up to her husband.
“Do you know who is responsible for this defamation?” he demanded.
“I… I…” Ugly heat scalded her insides. For some reason, she couldn’t get her brain to work. ’Twas as if her mental cogs were rusted into place.
“It matters not, my love. I’ll find out.” The muscles of his jaw were tight, his eyes slits of steel. “Whoever the bastard is, he’ll pay for this insult.”
She knew that look on her husband’s face: that of a crusader out for justice. Panic tumbled through her. Once Marcus set upon a course, there was no stopping him. A determination to do right was woven into the fabric of his nature. He would not relent until he found his answers. The Spectre might be dead, but if Marcus went searching into the dark alleys of her past, who knew what deadly skeletons he might dig up? What dangers might befall him?
“No,” she blurted. “You can’t.”
“Of course I can. And I will,” he said curtly. “No one slanders my wife and gets away with it.”
Think of something. Amongst espionage circles, she’d once been infamous for her skill at disguise and deception, yet as her husband’s gaze held hers, her mind churned in desperate confusion. It refused to come up with more lies, ways to bluff her way out of disaster. For the first time, her survival instincts abandoned her.
Icy perspiration trickled beneath her bodice. As she wetted her lips, telltale heat spread over her cheeks.
“What is the matter, love? Do you know who wrote this slander…” As Marcus watched her, something shifted in his expression. Disbelief strained his voice as he said, “It is slander, isn’t it?”
Still, she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t force her lips to shape the word, just one more lie, to save herself from certain destruction. Here, she was facing the deadliest opponent of them all—the truth—and she was suddenly, inexplicably out of bullets. She couldn’t hold his gaze, so intense and piercing.
Familiar callused fingers tipped her chin up. “Look at me.”
She did, staring into her beloved’s eyes, and, to her horror, her vision began to swim. She could count on two hands the times that she’d cried in front of her husband. Being rather hotheaded by nature, she was more apt to instigate an out-and-out row than succumb to tears. He liked to tease her that, with her temperament, she would have been one of the rowdy troublemakers in his battalion. He never knew how close he’d come to the truth. Perhaps she ought to have hidden her natural tendencies, but it had been too much trouble to cultivate the art of being a watering pot, even for him.
Now, however, she couldn’t stop the moisture leaking from her eyes.
“What the devil?” Marcus’ tone permeated her shock.
“You mustn’t pursue this. The writer of the note—he’s dead,” she said in a rush. “He was a spy, working for the French, and he’s no longer a threat. All of this is in the past. Please I can explain—”
“The letter says you were a spy, Pandora.” Her husband stared at her. “Is this true?”
Blooming hell. She fumbled for a response. “There’s a good explanation—”
“It’s a yes or no question,” he said incredulously.
Say no. Say no. Say no.
She seemed to have lost any ability to control herself. ’Twas as if she’d let go of tightly held reins all at once, and she was flying, flying into an abyss. Terrified, she couldn’t stop more tears from spilling over. Nor her chin from dipping in an infinitesimally small nod.
The silence was punctuated by sounds of domesticity beyond the room. Maids cleaning, silverware rattling on a tray. Everyday noises that seemed to come from a world away.
“And the rest of the letter?” The pain in her husband’s voice serrated her insides. “It claims that you… you seduced these three men. Pierre Chenet. Jean-Philippe Martin. Vincent Barone.”
The names tore into her like shrapnel. The last, in particular, left a gaping hole out of which her nightmares oozed. The alleyway of crushed violets. Smell of garbage. The taste of fear, tinny and acid, filled her mouth.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hold Marcus’ blazing gaze. “I… I…”
“Goddamnit, you will look at me and give me the truth.”
She forced her eyes up. His face was now tightly controlled, wiped of expression. He wasn’t her Marcus any longer; he was Lieutenant-Colonel Harrington, a man who held those in his command to the strictest levels of moral behavior. Who was now looking at his wife as he would a soldier placed on court-martial.
She’d fought too many battles not to know defeat when she saw it. No weapons left, no place to hide. Damn the Spectre for doing this. Damn him for destroying everything.
“I had no choice,” she said through the constriction of her throat. “It was part of the mission. Please, I can explain—”
“Explain? How do you explain that you were a spy? A damned whore?”