Delphine Dryden - Gossamer Wing

Those political motivations had long since ceased to be relevant, of course. These days, the men in power wanted nothing more than peaceful trade with Britain and its Dominions. Martin knew that, and always marveled that Dubois didn’t seem to grasp it. Heaven forbid, Martin thought, the man should simply focus on moving forward, improving the quality of his shoddy merchandise and expanding his product lines. Dubois seemed mired in the past, and determined to find his way back to it and the success he’d once had. The man’s imagination was as stunted as his body was corpulent. Even his greed was small-minded.

“One or the other of them can be removed, but I doubt even you could get away with eliminating both in such a short span of time. The Baron will be here in a few weeks, perhaps a month at the most, according to the gossip. So we monitor and control Hardison while we focus on neutralizing Murcheson.”

“I’ll need all you have on Hardison,” Martin murmured, gliding over to the desk to view the newspaper column over Dubois’s fat shoulder. The photograph at the top stopped him cold, hitting him like a blow to the gut.

“The woman . . .” he whispered.

“Charlotte, Lady Hardison. Née Moncrieffe. No, no, that was her first husband. Née Darmont. A young widow, it would seem. Hardison has exquisite taste, I must admit.”

Martin agreed. He had seen the lady in person, and knew the photograph scarcely did her justice. Five years hadn’t taken much toll, and she still looked like a porcelain doll. Particularly beside the finely dressed brute who stood next to her in the picture.

“He’s a monster, isn’t he?” Martin remarked, to draw attention away from the bride. “I hope I’m not called upon to subdue him. He’d run me out of tranquilizers in no time at all.”

“Just stay on him. Anticipate his movements, learn everything you can, be prepared for anything.” Dubois’s brow wrinkled. Martin thought he resembled a pug dog trying to work out how to chase its own tail. “Moncrieffe. Does that name sound familiar, Martin?”

The agent turned reluctant industrial spy shrugged, an elegant and quintessentially French motion. “I don’t keep up with the names of the American pseudo-aristocracy, Monsieur Dubois. They are so numerous.”

“True, true. Like the rats they are, eh?”

Dubois’s plump hand had curled into his pocket instinctively when Martin moved toward the desk. He was fingering the button, Martin knew. Always ready to unleash the fabled poison if Martin stepped out of line. Dubois had never come to trust his captive espionage expert, and that was the one piece of intelligence Martin was willing to grant him. He was right not to trust Coeur de Fer.

Making a mental note to acquire his own copy of the newspaper, Martin bowed himself out of the office and slunk from the building. He would do as Dubois ordered, of course. But the presence of Reginald Moncrieffe’s widow in France struck him as too unlikely to be coincidental. If it were, the coincidence must be nothing short of an act of Providence. Martin wasn’t sure yet exactly what opportunity her visit might grant him, but he vowed to be ready for it, whatever it chanced to be.

IT HAD BEEN a long few days, and Charlotte was beginning to feel her honeymoon must be some sort of awful penance—for what sins, she wasn’t quite sure. Her ear implants worked brilliantly, except when they failed suddenly and dramatically, which had happened several times already since the trip began. Still, she’d been half expecting that, and at least Dexter had been forewarned. He pretended to ignore the disgusting consequences of the malfunctioning equipment, and dealt with the stewards who came to clean up.

Still, it was not entirely painful, cruising over a clear ocean, surrounded by luxury and waited on hand and foot. As working assignments went, occasional violent nausea notwithstanding, it was certainly a plum. Charlotte had assumed the biggest threat to her peace of mind on board the good ship Alberta would be the sleeping arrangements with Dexter. She was half right.

The difficulty was not that she had to share a bunk with a very large not-quite-husband. Dexter was more than obliging, and though he took up an inordinate amount of space in general, he left more than his fair share of bed free and clear for Charlotte by sleeping on his side at the far edge of the bunk, his back plastered to the wall behind. He insisted, moreover, that he was quite comfortable doing so and she shouldn’t trouble herself to worry about him.

He didn’t even snore.

Unfortunately, none of that helped the subtle dread that came over Charlotte when Dexter closed the bed-curtains for the night. She thought she was hiding her anxiety well, until the second evening of the voyage when Dexter sighed in the darkness and scrambled over her to unfasten the heavy protective drape. He crawled out of the berth to turn the lights back on.

“What?” he asked, clearly exasperated.

“What?”

“You haven’t slept for two days, Charlotte. Not that I can tell, anyway. And you’ve been seasick as hell all day, so I’m sure you must need to rest. I’m doing my best not to keep you awake, but would you like me to try sleeping in the sitting room instead? Or perhaps I can ask the bursar if there’s an empty stateroom.”

“That would defeat the purpose of—”

“So would having you keel over from exhaustion.” He put his hands on his hips, which drew Charlotte’s attention to areas she’d been scrupulously trying to avoid noticing. He wore perfectly sensible, conservative, striped cotton pajamas, and Charlotte chided herself for imagining what he’d look like without them. “What is it? What do you need me to do?”

She bit her lip. She was weary to the bone, but it wasn’t fair to Dexter to let him think it was his doing. “It isn’t you. It’s stupid, really. Only . . . I’m a little . . .”

Her eyes flicked to the thick, stiffened curtain, still half closed along the rail that hung from the ceiling. Dexter followed her gaze. “A little . . . afraid of damask? A bit terrified of slightly gaudy brocade? Constitutionally averse to the color oxblood? Tell me.”

“Claustrophobic,” she blurted, even as she smiled at his comic guesses. Saying it out loud felt surprisingly liberating. “I’m claustrophobic. There, are you happy? When that curtain is closed, I feel like I can’t even breathe, much less sleep.”

“Is that all? Why didn’t you say something sooner?” He flicked off the light before he returned to the bed and tapped her legs, waiting for her to shift them out of the way before climbing back into his place by the wall. “Is this a recent development?”

“No, no. Ever since I was a little girl. It had improved for a while, then . . . then it got worse again. But the steward said we should close the curtains at night in case of swells, and loose objects flying, so—”

“I’m a light sleeper,” he said breezily. “At least I normally am, when I haven’t lain awake most of the previous night wondering why the hell the person in bed with me is still awake. I’ll probably sleep like the dead tonight. But the weather’s clear, so don’t be concerned. Tomorrow we can go about securing loose objects. Henceforward, if any rough weather starts I’ll be up in a flash and close the drape. In the meanwhile, leave the damn thing open and let’s get some rest.”

He was lying on top of the sheet and blanket, as he had the past few nights, while Charlotte snuggled beneath them. When he flicked the counterpane over both of them, she thought sleepily that she should probably offer to find him an extra blanket.

Dexter sat up, rousing her from the drowsiness that had already started to weigh down her eyes. “Move over.”