Not quite a duchess, p.1
Not Quite a Duchess, page 1
Not Quite a Duchess
SERVANTS TO SPIES
ALYSSA ALEXANDER
Copyright © 2023 by Alyssa Alexander Romance LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover art by Wicked Smart Designs
Created with Vellum by Tylor Paige
To Joe
Thank you for believing I’m good enough.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Epilogue
A note from the Author
Acknowledgments
Also by Alyssa Alexander
About the Author
Prologue
WANTED: A person of exceptional character interested in a unique position.
Job duties will be unusual and explained upon hire. Acute attention to detail is a necessity. Travel to the Continent is required. Training will be offered in specialized skills unrelated to household tasks. Must be able to read and write clearly and be well-spoken or willing to learn.
Applicant may be male or female, but must be in good physical health and willing to take risks with their person. High wages will be provided.
Confidentiality and loyalty to the Employer are paramount. References of past service are required; however, each applicant will be judged upon their own merit.
One
March 1794
Wapping, London
On the wharves of the Thames
A screech ricocheted through the air, bouncing between the aisles and the cavernous ceilings of the warehouse.
It was not a sound that belonged. Not after midnight, at any rate, when the building was empty of the dockers and laborers who usually scurried about.
Who the bloody hell was in his warehouse?
Knowing every creak of the plank floors, Sebastian Moore, Duke of Northfield, picked his way down the stairs from the upper level and his office, then between barrels of tobacco and sacks of flour. Candlelight glowed dimly in one of the warehouse aisles. It was not from the night watchman. The man carried a full lantern and was currently patrolling the perimeter of the building.
North moved softly until he reached the end of the aisle. Sliding a hand over the curved side of a whiskey cask, he peered around it—and discovered who had created the sound.
Someone was riffling through an open crate, shoulder deep. The lid of the crate leaned haphazardly against a trunk, nails spearing from the weathered wood. An iron crow lay on the floor beside it.
The man’s back was turned, presenting North with only a wide-brimmed hat, a blond plait, homespun breeches, and coat. The intruder pushed aside English linen, cotton, and broad-cloth, all of which were intended to be sold on the Continent.
Thief.
North dug his fingers into the hard, solid wood of the cask.
A thief in his warehouse.
He had spent a decade building this shipping business, dragging his family out of scandal and debt until they stood on the edge of redemption.
He would not allow anyone or anything to ruin it now.
North crouched low, thighs tensed, and edged along the stacks of goods in the aisle. He had no weapon aside from his bare hands, no training beyond gentlemanly pursuits, but rage drove him.
He considered it his only weapon and hoped it would be enough.
Coiling his muscles, North dug his heels into the planked floor and prepared to leap.
The intruder’s head jerked up, and he spun on the heel of his scarred and worn boots.
It was too late.
North had already leapt.
He glimpsed a pale face before he caught the intruder with a hard blow to the ribs. A harsh gasp echoed in the warehouse as the thief doubled over. Acting on instinct, North kicked out and swept the man’s boots out from under him.
The tall, lean form went down hard, panting for air. With a low growl, North bent over, gripped the man’s neckcloth, and jerked his torso off the floor to look the thief full in the face.
High cheekbones, a wide pink mouth, a narrow nose. Though the jaw was as sharp as the cheekbones, there was a delicacy to the shape—and all those strong bones were covered with smooth skin that appeared as soft as a flower petal.
He’d felled a woman.
She bared her teeth in a fierce grin and scissored her legs around his thighs. Gripping tight, she wrenched him over and North toppled hard, ending flat on his back. Air whooshed from his lungs in a single blast, hollowing him of everything but shock.
The woman fought as if she had been well-trained.
If she was no mere thief, who was she?
A short-armed punch hit his gut and he sucked in what little breath remained. Coughing, North shook his head to clear the buzzing in his ears.
Move!
Desperate for air, he rolled, scooping the intruder beneath him and pinioning her arms. Rising up, knees braced on either side of her torso to contain her, North stared down at her fine-boned face and tried to control his anger.
“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” he rasped. “Who are you?”
Her body contracted between his thighs, muscles tightening, long limbs straining against his. She bucked against him but said nothing.
“Damnation.” Shifting his weight, North drew air into his abused lungs and studied her face. It was difficult to determine the color of her eyes in the candlelight, but there was thunder in her gaze. Who had sent her? “I ask you again. Why are you here?”
“To bloody well stop you,” she bit out. With a great heave she pressed her heels into the floor, jerked her hips up, and swept her arms down to her sides, dislodging his hands.
Caught unaware, North released her hands to save his face from smashing against the floor as he tipped forward. She wrapped her arms around his torso, clinging to his chest before twisting to the side and grabbing one of his arms. Pulling it out from beneath him, she rolled him onto his back, then jabbed at his face with the heel of her hand.
Pain exploded in his lip, his nose. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, and he fought to keep starbursts from overtaking his vision.
The intruder scrambled to her feet, curses spilling from her lips. Groaning, North rolled to one side and pushed himself up to his knees, then his feet—and discovered he was now facing the small, dark hole at the end of a pistol barrel.
“I need only one second to right a thousand wrongs.” Disgust coated the woman’s words, sharpening an already acid tone. She braced the pistol on one forearm, comfortably, as if she had done so a thousand times before.
Excellent. She was well experienced with the weapon. T’was just want he needed.
Her plait had loosened, and her hat was missing, leaving her pale blonde hair swirling about her shoulders. Narrowed eyes bored into him, and North realized the two of them of were of a height.
“Tell me why I should not pull the trigger, Northfield.”
She knew who he was.
Not the night watchman, but Sebastian Moore, Duke of Northfield. Proprietor. Employer.
Son of a notorious bigamist.
Drawing breath, North forced his body under control and sent her a cool smile. If he was going to die, it would not be because he stood there doing nothing. He would bide his time until the moment was right.
“As I am unsure as to the wrongs you speak of,” he said, deliberately dispassionate. “I cannot defend myself.” Slowly, so she would not shoot him, he swiped his forearm beneath his nose. Not broken, he guessed, but blood still smeared his shirtsleeve.
The damn thing throbbed like hell.
“How many muskets have you sold?” Her aim was steady, the weapon’s iron and wood an extension of her arm. Her coat hung open, revealing a soldier’s shoulder belt. It crossed between small breasts and ended in a worn leather holster. “How many weapon shipments are scheduled for France?” she demanded.
“Muskets?” North lifted his brows, though he did not otherwise move. At this short range, she could not miss—they both knew it. “I do no t deal in arms, madam, and most definitely not with France. It would be treason.”
“You lie.” She tossed her head, an efficient movement that shook fine, blonde hair away from her face. “I have seen the proof with my own eyes. Nine crates of muskets in a warehouse in Le Havre, intended for the armée révolutionnaire, all under the brand of Northfield Shipping. And now—” Pistol still braced on her forearm, she used it to gesture toward the crate she had been searching. “I find two dozen Brown Bess muskets hidden beneath good English cloth. I ask you again, Your Grace, how many muskets have you sold to the French?”
This woman, this intruder, was mistaken. He would never deal in arms and risk the business he had built with his own sweat, nerve, and grit.
He would never risk his family after the hell they had endured.
“None.” He turned his head to look at the crate she had been searching. A mound of linens and broad-cloth were pushed to one side, but he could not see into the bottom of the container. Still, he knew the truth. He reviewed every account, every bill of lading. “I do not deal in arms.”
“Oi! Yer Grace!”
The watchman’s shout startled the woman. The pistol jerked as she turned her head toward the sound. North flinched, expecting to hear a roar as the weapon fired. But there was no shot, no report, and he let out his breath.
Among her other skills, the woman had control.
“Oi!” The night watchman called out again as he began to run.
“Shite,” she muttered as she watched the night watchman barreling toward them.
North knew he had only a moment. He launched himself at the woman, bracing his body to take her to the floor and circling his arms about her waist.
Just as she sent her knee into his bollocks.
Pain and nausea exploded, all-encompassing, and he dropped to his knees. Hissing through his teeth, North clutched himself and stared up into a grim, delicate face. Pale-lashed, storm-filled eyes looked down at him as if damning him to hell.
“I will be watching you, Northfield.”
She was gone in a flurry of homespun.
The light, quick pounding of her boots echoed against the high ceilings. The watchman’s heavier steps accompanied the sound, frantic in pursuit but clearly not fast enough. She would outrun him in minutes.
North staggered to his feet. Fighting the need to retch, he lurched toward the crate she had been digging in. Gripping the edge, he peered inside.
The muskets were there. Nestled together, butt to barrel, barrel to butt. Padding wove between the muskets, the white cotton bright against the glinting metal of the barrels.
Blood roared in his ears, overpowering the frantic beat of his heart.
My God.
She was right.
Two
Sandborne Street
East End, London
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, stay still, Tess.” Despite her sharp tone, the Starling’s fingers were gentle as she spread a thick concoction over Tess’s ribs. “You are a most trying patient, did you know?”
“I am only trying because my target hit the ribs I already injured in Le Havre.” Mary Theresa Montgomery, or Tess Murray, the Sparrow, as the other spies knew her, studied the amalgam of yellow-green and purple bruises spread over her torso. Grimacing, she pulled her linen shirt higher, holding it out of the Starling’s way.
That idiot duke had managed to find her injury.
Tess sucked in her breath as pain radiated over her ribs, even though the Starling’s cool fingers were gentle in their ministrations.
Damn Northfield for being better at combat than she’d expected, and damn him again for being handsome as the devil. Hair black as midnight, lean features—and alive with fierce conviction.
She had been so certain he was involved in smuggling.
She no longer was.
“’Tis well I returned from Brussels early, as you have no skill for healing.” Kneeling in front of Tess, Helene Bisset, the Starling, frowned in concentration. Honey-colored curls danced about her face, as fashionable as the rest of her clothing, though she did not comment on Tess’s attire. The spies Tess worked with had long since become accustomed to her men’s clothing.
“Now that I think on it,” Helene added, voice smooth as velvet, “I shall review the herbs and salves to ensure our stock is sufficient.”
“Hmm.” Thank goodness Helene knew what she was about. Tess herself knew nothing of the healing arts.
Their spymaster had refitted the entire third floor of their headquarters into a single space for them to meet and train, procure ammunition, and store medicines. Muskets and rifles were mounted on the walls, bracketed side by side with pistols, bayonets, and blades that could be shoved into the sole of a shoe or tucked into stays. There was more: tools for weapon maintenance, tonics and ointments, canvas stuffed with straw to practice knife work.
The weapons housed in the training room were her strengths.
Her haven.
“What is in this salve?” Tess wrinkled her nose. It smelled suspiciously like dirty feet. “It stinks.”
“Cinquefoil, a bit of yarrow, and a few other herbs.” Helene replaced the stopper on the jar and stood, wiping her hand on her apron. Her amber eyes glowed in the gray morning light, emphasizing their catlike shape. “All you need know is, the salve will assist the bruises to heal. I will mix you a small batch and bring it by your rooms when I return home this evening.”
Even as Tess let her linen shirt fall to cover her ribs, Vallant’s cool voice came from the doorway.
“Sparrow. My office.” Her spymaster and commander stood straight and austere, the stock at his neck sharply white against the black of his coat. His deep brown eyes studied her from beneath even darker brows. There was no mistaking his anger in the controlled expression. “Now.”
Shite. He knows about Le Havre.
Vallant turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Tess scrambling for her coat and haphazardly shoving her arms into the sleeves. Swiping up her pistol and shoulder belt, she sent a quick nod to Helene and left the training room behind.
Vallant’s office was one floor below in the narrow, terraced townhouse. Their spy quarters were wedged between a printer’s shop and rented lodgings, with a bakery on the ground floor, and were as shabby as everything else on Sandborne Street to avoid notice.
She loved it.
Straightening her coat, Tess strode through the anteroom and into Vallant’s office, then closed the door behind her. He sat behind a desk scarred and worn from use—including dagger marks from a rogue agent who had attempted to stab Vallant and lost his own life not a second later.
Vallant drummed his fingers against the battered desktop. The moment stretched out. One minute. Two. She would have preferred silence to the continuous beat of his fingers. The sound increased the rhythm of her own heart.
“Damnation, Sparrow.” Two large palms hit the desktop, rattling the inkwell and making the quills jump. He stood, bracing himself on his hands. “’Twas inferior work in Le Havre. The evidence and the entire warehouse—not to mention buildings near to it—were lost. If your actions are connected to England, the repercussions are significant. Worse, the guard survived. He could identify you.”
“Aye, sir.” She tipped up her chin and felt the color rise in her face as quickly as the need to defend herself. “I started the explosion with barrels of gunpowder and an oil lantern to destroy the muskets so they could not be delivered. As for the guard, I made the decision in the moment to save his life—a decision I continue to stand by.”
