Spy Season Read online

  Spy Season

  A PREQUEL TO A SEASON FOR SPIES

  DECEPTION & DISCIPLINE SERIES

  GOLDEN ANGEL

  Contents

  Part I

  Part II

  Part III

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Other Titles by Golden Angel

  Part One

  Anthony

  A brothel in the middle of Paris.

  Anthony shook his head as he made his way through the streets, keeping his chin lifted and his pace steady. He wanted to appear lost in thought. The kind of gentleman one might glance at, then not remember because he was so insignificant—or if a lady glanced, she might only remember seeing a handsome man passing by.

  Though there were not too many ‘ladies,’ as such, on the streets he was entering. Personally, Anthony preferred women who were not ‘ladies.’ While his parentage was high enough as the second son of an English viscount, he eschewed the social obligations of that world. He had very little patience for the many vagaries of Society, much less their rules.

  Which was why the army had been such a good fit for him. Then he’d been recruited by England’s Spymaster, the Marquess of Camden. His grandmother had been French, and Anthony had ‘the look,’ as well as being fluent in the language. It had made him an ideal spy, which took him to such interesting places.

  Madame Dupont’s was hardly the oddest or most interesting location he’d been to, but he had to admit he had not expected to be sent to a brothel as part of his service to his country, even if it was also a gaming hell. Who would he be meeting there? He did not know, but that was hardly unusual.The note with his instructions had been necessarily vague since he was in enemy territory and had been for quite some time. He adjusted the red cravat he was wearing and the blue flower in his lapel, which he’d been instructed to wear so that he could be recognized.

  The streets were becoming darker, less well-lit, and the people he passed more mixed in appearance. There were others dressed like himself, regular gentlemen who had made their money from trade and the like, as well as rough laborers and workers. Scattered among them were a few groups of the aristocracy who had come to visit the more dangerous parts of the city.

  Anthony appeared to ignore them all, while in actuality, he was noting each and every one, assessing them as a threat.

  The entrance to Madame Dupont’s appeared at the end of the street, and his pulse picked up, anticipation quickening his step. Anyone watching would think his faster gait was for a different reason entirely, which suited him well enough.

  The main room was filled with rowdy patrons, drinking and playing. Lightskirts were scattered around the room, some walking, some sitting on a patron’s lap, and one was heading up the back stairs with a rather inebriated man. Likely, the rooms for ‘entertaining’ were located at the top of those stairs.

  “Monsieur, bienvenu.” One of the lightskirts came swaying up to him, eyes bright with the welcome that was echoed on her rouged lips. The lowcut gown she was wearing was made of such thin cloth, it was nearly transparent, and he could see her rouged nipples through the pale fabric. Despite the delightful distraction, Anthony’s brain effortlessly translated her French to English. “What kind of entertainment are you looking for this evening?” From the thrust of her hip and the way she leaned toward him, she was obviously offering a particular kind.

  “I thought to start with a drink,” he replied easily in French, smiling at her to take the sting out of his refusal of her services.

  She did not seem at all perturbed by his rejection, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

  “Very good, sir. This way.” Hooking her arm through his, she led him toward the side of the room, where there were tables and chairs with quite a few patrons sitting and drinking. Some of them had feminine company, some were with their friends, and there was one man drinking alone.

  Anthony’s gaze caught on the man sitting alone—possibly his contact? Tall and thin with an angular face, the quality of his clothes and boots were a cut above most of the other patrons. As Anthony had never met another agent who did not possess the ability to blend in, he was uncertain.

  Wait for your contact to approach you.

  So, when the other man lifted his head and met Anthony’s gaze, Anthony did no more than nod politely and look away, returning his attention to the lightskirt, who had decided to keep him company.

  Evie

  Watching Captain Anthony Browne—English agent in service of the Crown and second son of Viscount Browne—being led through the French whorehouse, Evie felt a very odd stirring in her body.

  Arousal? Why? And why him?

  There was nothing immediately attractive about him. He was dressed not to be noticed, and while he was handsome, she’d met far more beautiful men. He hardly stood out, yet… the attraction was there. Something indefinable and unexpected.

  Evie was used to the unexpected in her life. She was not used to it from her own body. Especially when she was working. No matter what else happened to her, her reactions had always been hers to command, and she resented discovering there was an exception to the rule.

  As Birgitte led the captain through the main floor of the brothel, she glanced over at Evie, who nodded at her.

  Red cravat. Blue flower in his lapel.

  The spy from England who General Moreau had boasted he would capture tonight. That one had appeared was the biggest surprise. Evie had not actually expected to see any of her uncle’s agents enter Madame Dupont’s this evening, much less one attired as the general had claimed he would be. She’d thought the general to be boasting in an attempt to make himself seem more important than he actually was, but she had not wanted to leave one of her uncle’s agents in a trap if there had been even a kernel of truth to the general’s claims.

  Which was very lucky for Captain Anthony Browne. If she had not been here, he would likely be dead by dawn. Even luckier, she knew who he was. Though Evie made it her business to know as many of her uncle’s agents by face as she could, not all of them had visited him while she was at-home. And her uncle certainly did his best to keep her out of his line of work.

  Unfortunately for him, Evie was not comfortable being the proper lady her uncle was trying to mold her into. She’d spent too much time on the streets of London after the death of her parents left her orphaned and alone. By the time her uncle had come to claim her, she’d already fled the cruel woman her parents’ solicitor had put in charge of her care and disappeared. Uncle Oliver had found her four years later, mudlarking with a street gang and doing her best to hide her identity as a female.

  It had been a miracle he’d run into her. Only her bright green eyes had allowed him to recognize her. She’d recognized him immediately but would have fled if he hadn’t seen her eyes and grabbed hold of her.

  Once she’d started living with him, he’d done his best to turn her into a proper lady, but Evie wanted to do what he did. What her cousins did. She made a very good spy, even if neither her uncle nor cousins wanted to admit it.

  Perhaps saving the captain’s life would help her prove otherwise. Though her uncle was likely to lose his temper when she admitted what she’d done with her time in Paris.

  Moving through the crowd with practiced ease, dodging groping hands on the way, Evie replaced Birgitte at the captain’s side as she left to get him a drink—at least, Evie assumed that was what he’d tasked the other woman with by the end of their conversation.

  His eyes drifted over the tops of her breasts before rising to meet Evie’s eyes, and she smiled at him. She could tell from the expression on his face, he was about to dismiss her, thinking her one of the usual lightskirts.

  Evie leaned down, so her ample cleavage was directly in front of his gaze and spoke low in his ear. The din of the crowd around them would keep them from being overheard, but Evie had learned that caution was never a wasted effort.

  “Have you put your wager on the north wind yet?” she asked in French.

  “Excuse me…” It seemed to take a moment for him to understand her words, then he froze.

  Blinked.

  Looked up at her far more carefully.

  Evie met his gaze and smiled.

  To anyone else in the room, it would appear as though they were flirting. To the captain, she had just revealed herself to be a fellow agent of the Crown, with a dire message for him. Her uncle’s agents used individual code phrases for each mission, but there were some that could be used at any time, and the emergency phrase was one of those.

  “I had ten francs on the west wind,” he replied, his gaze now cautious and wary, though he tipped his head back and appeared as though he was studying her lips and face, perhaps deciding if she appealed. He was good at this.

  Good enough, Evie felt her pulse quicken in interest under his intent gaze. The way his eyes roved over her made her skin tingle. She cursed inwardly, but there was nothing she could do about her body’s inconvenient response to him except try to ignore it.

  “The south wind is going to take the win.” Straightening, Evie crooked her finger at him and turned to go, her hips moving and skirts swaying to show off her ankles where they were hiked up on either side. Across the room, she saw Birgitte and nodded her thanks.

  Birgitte was one of the many young women Evie had cultivated for information. Men overlooked women in general, their ladybirds and tarts in particular. Sex loosened a man’s tongue even more efficiently than alcohol, especially among men who were trained to watch what they said. For some rea
son, they held their tongue among other men, but what they held back came out during pillow talk.

  That was how she’d learned of the trap for the captain. The general had boasted to Melody, who had told Birgitte, who had informed Madame Dupont, who had sent a note to Evie.

  A year ago, Evie had saved Birgitte from an importuning lord who had decided she was going to be his personal courtesan—whether she willed it or not. He’d been attempting to kidnap her from the street when Evie had intervened. That had led to their friendship and Evie’s introduction to Madame Dupont’s. None of them knew who Evie really was, of course, but they accepted her as one of their own.

  As she swept up the stairs, she could feel the captain’s presence behind her without looking to check if he was there. What was it about him? No man had ever affected her the same way he did.

  Evie was no chaste virgin. Between her time on the streets and in Madame Dupont’s, there was very little she did not know about sexual relations, even in the areas where she did not have experience, but she had never felt this before.

  She did not like it one bit.

  Anthony

  Glancing over his shoulder at the room, the woman who had originally met him had already moved on to flirting with another man. She didn’t seem at all upset at her apparent loss of income. He had caught the look exchanged between her and the woman he was now following—the woman who, somehow, had known the emergency phrases for English spies.

  What the bloody hell was going on?

  As far as he knew, there were no female agents. Not really. Not any that Camden would send into hostile territory like this. At most, he garnered information from diplomats’ wives or daughters, learning what they overheard in ballrooms and salons.

  Which meant this was either a trap, or Camden had been keeping secrets. Either seemed possible, but Anthony remained wary.

  They passed through the hallway, and the sounds coming from behind the closed doors made it clear what the activities were within. What was a female agent doing in a brothel? While she was exceptionally attractive and could likely attract high-end clientele, Anthony would have expected someone with her looks and bearing to be an exclusive courtesan—not reside in a common brothel in one of the worst parts of Paris.

  The woman opened a door and walked through it. Anthony followed warily, but the room was sparsely furnished. The biggest danger would be someone hiding in the wardrobe.

  Hurrying over to the window, the woman glanced outside, then turned around to face him.

  Again, he was struck by her beauty in a way none of the other women downstairs had stirred him. It was something more than her physical beauty. There was an attraction between them that fairly sizzled in the air. In another place, at another time, his only interest would have been exploring that attraction.

  Instead, he closed the door behind him and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “What is going on?” he demanded to know, still speaking in French, even though they were alone, remaining wary and cautious.

  “You need to leave,” she responded in the same language. “This is a trap.”

  Alarm flared within him, but he glared at her rather than doing as she commanded.

  “Then why did you bring me into it?”

  She rolled her eyes at him, glancing back out the window.

  “I am not the trap, you fool. This brothel is the trap. The soldiers will be coming any minute now, looking for a man with a red cravat and a blue flower. You should take those off.” She gestured at his chest. “I will burn them, and you can go back down and out through the main door. Try to look at inconspicuous as possible.”

  Despite the concern that rose inside of him, Anthony still did not move to do as she said. There was no proof that she was on his side. Perhaps she was there to interfere with his meeting, keeping him busy and away from the main room where his contact was.

  How she might know about it, he had no idea, but he didn’t know how she had come by the knowledge of this supposed trap either. Living for so long in enemy territory made one rather untrusting. Anthony liked to think he could trust his instincts, and normally, he could read people very well, but… not her.

  His instincts about her were jumbled by the desire he couldn’t completely ignore. He could not tell if her nerves were due to the supposed incoming soldiers or general nervousness from whatever role she was playing in interfering.

  Looking back at him, she frowned.

  “What are you doing? Hurry up.” She waved her hands at him.

  “I have no proof that you are helping me. In fact, you could be hindering my agenda for the evening. I am to here meet someone, which you are preventing.”

  Green eyes flashed with anger. Whoever she was, she was not used to being denied. It gave him some small amount of pleasure to know he was not dancing to her tune, the way she was clearly used to having men do.

  “I am preventing you from being swept up by General Moreau, who is coming here tonight to capture an English spy with a blue flower in his lapel and wearing a red cravat,” she snapped at him. “He boasted of it to one of the women here.”

  Anthony crossed his arms over his chest. It stretched the boundaries of his belief that a man, a general no less, would be so loose-lipped and careless as to announce such things to a whore.

  Yet… it was such a ludicrous story that he could not dismiss it out of hand. Why come up with such a bizarre lie? Why not claim something more believable?

  The woman looked back out the window.

  “How—”

  “Blast,” she hissed and came toward him. “They’re here. We need to burn these!”

  Anthony would have protested, except he could hear a scream coming from below, and the sound of heavy boots on wooden floors, men shouting orders…

  Bloody hell.

  Either this was a coincidence of incredible timing, or she was right.

  The woman rushed forward, and he almost grabbed her, but she was doing no more than reaching for his flower and cravat. She nearly choked him getting it off, then hurried over and tossed them in the fireplace, picking up a log and setting it atop them to hide them. The flower disappeared immediately, but the cravat would take longer.

  “Hurry up and get undressed,” she ordered, her hands going behind her back to undo the laces on her dress.

  “What?” Anthony stared blankly at her. She looked back at him with a slightly contemptuous expression on her face.

  “Get undressed! We have to make them think you’re a normal patron.”

  “I can just go back downstairs,” he said stubbornly, though his resolve was weakening as her dress dropped to the floor in a puddle of fabric, leaving her in nothing but her stays and stockings. She was wearing nothing else beneath them and his gaze caught on the curvy lines of her hips, the thatch of curls covering her womanhood, and the smoothness of her thighs.

  “With no cravat?” She rolled her eyes, coming at him again. Despite her lack of attire, her attitude was all business. “Someone might remember what you were wearing. Don’t be a prat. I’m sure you’re no virgin, and we need to make this look real, or else this might well be your last day on earth.”

  That grim statement uttered, she reached for him and shoved his jacket from his shoulders, her breasts brushing against his front. Anthony’s reservations were rapidly deteriorating under both her nearness and her logic.

  What he did not expect was for her to push him around. Surprisingly strong, she pushed him onto his back on the bed. The mattress was hardly comfortable, but Anthony had slept on worse. His eyebrows rose as she swiftly undid the placket at the front of his pants, freeing his half-hard cock.

  Only half-hard because—despite her nakedness—the situation and shouting from downstairs did not lend itself to arousal.

  Nor did the heavy tread of boots in the hall.

  The woman glanced over her shoulder, her hand still around his cock, which was causing the member to rapidly thicken and grow.

  “Blast.” She uttered the word before quickly climbing onto the bed, knees on either side of his body.