Kate Cross - Touch of Steel

And yet he’d felt some compassion for her when he saw how much pain she was in. And he’d felt a little grudging respect when she stared defiantly down that pert nose of hers. Women—agents—like her normally turned on the seduction in an attempt to gain affection or trust. She hadn’t used her wiles against him at all. In fact, she seemed all too willing to do what he wanted. Why?

After the club, he returned home, and after a glass or several of whiskey, retired for the evening. Sleep had not come easy. He’d lain awake for hours, playing bits of the conversation with Brooks over in his mind, and one question remained.

How did such a woman become such a spy? She was beautiful and unusual enough to adorn the arm of any important man. Then again, beautiful women—women with presence—often made the best spies. And one might ask why he chose such a profession when he certainly wasn’t in need of it. Perhaps Claire Brooks thought she’d been doing the right thing when she joined the Company.

But being misguided was not something that was going to earn his sympathy. Everyone had decisions to make in the course of his or her life, and each of those decisions carried consequences.

He was about to face the consequences of his decision to keep Luke away from Claire Brooks.

The lift jerked to a stop, and the door slid open. Alastair opened the gate and walked out into the grand foyer of Warden headquarters. He’d heard others describe it as looking like the great hall of a country house with its columns and marble, but to him it was more like a gallery—ostentatious, pretentious and far too quiet. And that bizarre blue glow given off by the lamps on the wall always made him feel as if he’d just stepped into a fantasy world.

Armed guards dressed in black and gold—the colors of the Wardens—flanked the large oak double door that led into the inner sanctum. Alastair approached them with an easy stride, his hands loose at his side. He wanted to hold them behind his back, but that might present the misconception that he had a weapon he was prepared to use, and that would not be good.

“Alastair Payne, Lord Wolfred, to see the director,” he informed them. It was such a foolish procedure. These guards knew who he was, for pity’s sake.

Without the slightest change in expression, one of the guards continued to stare at a point over his shoulder, and with practiced movements, extended his arm and turned the handle. The door opened.

Alastair crossed the threshold, in Cthrndlto an interior that had always reminded him of a high-class brothel, though he would never voice that opinion aloud.

A pale carpet with a demure pattern covered the floor. The walls were papered in a delicate cream peppered with brightly colored exotic birds. The furniture was dark wood, upholstered in bloodred velvet. Clocks on the wall gave the time in several foreign cities, and behind an ornate desk sat a gentleman in his forties with a kind, round face and a receding hairline. He looked like a jovial sort, but Alastair knew for a fact the bloke would kill a man as soon as look at him.

“Good morning, Finchley,” Alastair said in greeting.

“Wolfred.” Even his voice sounded cheerful—cheerfully mad. “Bit late, aren’t you, old boy? Go on in. She’s expecting you.” Then he pressed a button on the ornophone box—a polished teak affair about the size of a cigar box with a small polished horn, like those on a Victrola, on top—and announced Alastair’s arrival.

He’d had less trouble getting an audience with Queen Victoria, even though this meeting was not his idea. Yes, it made sense after Dhanya’s last secretary turned out to be a Company agent, but it was still a pain in the arse.

Walking into the director’s office was like walking into a Bengal market with its silk-swathed walls and bright, richly colored decor. At the back of the room was a large desk formed of a huge slab of ebony on the back of four temple elephants. Behind it was Dhanya Withering, rumored to be the illegitimate granddaughter of Her Majesty, and director of the W.O.R. She was tall and shapely with long black hair coiled on the back of her head, dark eyes and a complexion that was a perfect blend of exotic and English. She wore her usual work uniform of snug trousers tucked into boots, white shirt and waistcoat—this one a rich violet.

“Alastair,” she said, using his Christian name as easily as his own mother. “Thank you for coming.”

As though he’d had a choice in the matter. He smiled. Part of Dhanya’s charm was that she was impossible to stay annoyed with. She was supposed to be on leave, but she had returned to work when she heard of Claire Brooks’s apprehension—and when Evie threatened to quit if Ashford wasn’t made to step down. “Finchley said I was late.”

Her lips tilted up on one side. “Mr. Finchley needs to have his pocket watch adjusted. Come sit. Tea? I have chai. It will put some color back in your cheeks.”

“Sleep could have done that,” he replied drily as he approached the desk.

She shot him a sideways glance from the sideboard where a teapot of hot water sat on an ornate warmer. “It is not my fault you cannot get to bed at a decent hour.”

Alastair flipped out the tails of his coat and sat down in one of the plush chairs in front of the desk. “The devil it’s not.”

“You were at your club into the wee hours. Is that my fault?”

How the hell did she know these things? “No, but the fact that I’m here before noon is.”

Dhanya returned with a tray carrying two cups of fragrant, milky chai and a plate of sweets that no doubt came from her mother’s bakery. The woman made a variety o Ce aps f edibles, but her traditional desserts simply had no equal. He immediately plucked a small, orange-colored square from the plate and popped it in his mouth. It was all he could do not to moan in delight.

“Poor thing,” she teased. “Having to actually get out of bed in the morning. How awful.”

This was not a debate he had any chance of winning. “Thank you for the chai.”

She smiled in that closed-lipped manner so many women seemed to employ when they knew something the man did not. “You are welcome. Now, shall we discuss why you are here?”

“Of course.” He crossed his legs. “I assume it has to do with the Dove.”

All trace of humor disappeared as Dhanya met his gaze with the fathomless gravity of her own. “She is quite the acquisition.”

“She’s a spy, not a pair of shoes.” Acquisitions couldn’t stab one in the throat. Or tremble because they were in so much pain.

Dhanya tilted her head, continuing to watch him as if she were an owl and he a damn mouse. “Quite. I’m told you wish to take responsibility for her rather than Lucas Grey.”

“Arden’s pregnant.” There was no point in saying anything other than the truth. Dhanya probably already knew.

The director nodded, the light reflecting off the dark of her hair. “Yes. And you still see yourself as her knight errant.”

Alastair smiled slightly. She did not know everything, Miss Withering. “No. I’m no knight. I simply think it would be wrong to separate Luke and his bride again. Last time it took him seven years to find his way back. Claire Brooks works for the people responsible for that.”

“She did work for them.”

“You believe she’s turned traitor, then?”

Dhanya nodded and took a sip of tea. “Huntley believes it, and I’m inclined to trust his judgment. He knows how to handle this woman, Alastair. You do not.”

He snorted. “I’m no stranger to women like her.”

“Precisely. The last one almost killed you. I’d hate for you to take any unresolved feelings you might have regarding that misfortune out on our prisoner.”