A Tangled Ruse: A Regency Spy Romance (The Beckett Files Book 4) Read online

  Laura Beers

  Contents

  More Romance by Laura Beers

  1. England, 1813

  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

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  About the Author

  Text copyright © 2018 by Laura Beers

  Cover art copyright © 2018 by Laura Beers

  Cover art by Tugboat Design

  http://www.tugboatdesign.net

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, copied, or transmitted without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  More Romance by Laura Beers

  Saving Shadow

  A Peculiar Courtship

  To Love a Spy

  A Deceptive Bargain

  The Baron’s Daughter

  The Unfortunate Debutante

  1

  England, 1813

  Do not show any hint of weakness, Lady Rachel thought as she stared at her formidable opponent. Do not let him intimidate you. He sat across from her in the coach, appearing oblivious to her internal struggle. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips tightened. The swaying of the coach was doing little to distract her from her objective: to engage Mr. Larson in a conversation. Not even a witty, informative discussion; a dull chat would suffice.

  To the world, Mr. Larson was a stoic, dangerous man, but Rachel had witnessed on more than one occasion a softer, more vulnerable side of him. She needed to find a way to break through his defenses but was unsure how to accomplish that. Perhaps her assessment of him was wrong? No, she had to be right.

  For the past three days, Rachel had done very little but dwell on why Mr. Larson was the way he was. At one point, she had concluded that he was secretly a lord concealing his identity, because his evil younger brother was trying to kill him. Eventually, she had given up on that theory, but she had an immense desire to crack the code that was Mr. Larson.

  The coach lurched to one side then rocked back into place, causing her heart to race. She closed her eyes and took a shuddering breath, hoping to banish the memory that threatened to engulf her. Four days ago, someone had attempted to abduct her in front of Gunter’s Tea Shop in London. Fortunately, her good friend, Lady Eliza Lansdowne, had interceded on her behalf by shooting her assailant in the leg. Even though her friend was a marchioness, she was also an agent for the Crown, known only as Shadow. As a notorious spy, she always kept a pistol in her reticule, and a dagger strapped to her thigh.

  Within hours of the attempted abduction, Rachel was riding in the Lansdowne’s crested coach, traveling to her uncle’s estate near Rockcliffe, Scotland. By sending her in the Lansdowne’s coach, they hoped her abductors would be fooled into believing that she was in London and still within reach. To ease Lord Exeter’s discomfort about sending his daughter so far away, Eliza sent along her most trusted protector, Mr. Larson. His job was to ensure she arrived safely in Scotland, but apparently, he did not intend to engage in any nonessential communication with her.

  The man in question let out a low, disapproving sigh. “Lady Rachel, may I ask why you have been staring at me for the past hour?”

  “Have I?” she asked innocently.

  “You have.”

  She maintained her steady gaze. Even though Mr. Larson had just spoken more words than he had in the past two days, Rachel was not ready to give up her advantage. “I am curious, how much longer till we arrive at my uncle’s estate?”

  With a soft, almost nonexistent huff, Mr. Larson replied, “In a few hours or so, assuming we do not stop unnecessarily.”

  Rachel’s eyes darted towards the roof of the coach and thought about her poor lady’s maid, Savannah, sitting next to the driver. Her stomach did not appreciate extended travel in a stuffy, jerky coach for days on end. After stopping for the tenth time today, Mr. Larson graciously gave up his seat to Savannah, allowing her to enjoy the fresh air.

  Turning her attention back to her protector, she eyed his wrinkled white shirt and knew her dark blue traveling dress did not fare much better. A flowered straw hat sat next to her on the bench, practically begging to be tossed out the window. Her mother insisted that she always wear a hat in public, but she abhorred the long pins necessary to secure it to her head.

  “What is truly bothering you?” Mr. Larson asked gently, quieting her desire to fling her hat from the coach.

  This is a trick, she thought, as her eyes grew wary of his kind tone. What game is he playing? Instead of answering him, she asked a question of her own. “Why would you believe something is bothering me?”

  One side of Mr. Larson’s lips curled so slightly that it was barely discernable. “To start with, I fear that you intend to do harm to your hat,” he revealed knowingly, before pausing, “and you cannot seem to sit still.”

  “I am dreadfully bored,” she confessed, dropping her hands into her lap. “For the past three days, I was in a coach with Savannah fanning her face. Now I am with you, and you don’t seem to think polite conversation is necessary.”

  He shrugged unapologetically. “I admit, I do think polite conversation is pointless.”

  “Believe me, I know,” Rachel huffed, amused. “However, I do not believe you are a lost cause… yet.”

  “No?”

  Feeling bold, she prodded, “I think you want to tell me about your life as a spy.”

  Mr. Larson stared at her for a long moment. “And why would I want to do that?”

  “It would only be fair, since I plan to share my own stories about being a spy,” Rachel replied with a twinkle in her eye.

  He shook his head. “You are not a spy.”

  “No?” Rachel smirked. “I seem to recall helping Shadow bring down an entire slavery ring.”

  He gave her an exasperated look. “I will concede that you saved Eliza’s life, but Lord Beckett did not hire you as an agent of the Crown.”

  Her smile grew more mischievous. “True, but Eliza made me a spy.”

  Mr. Larson emitted a noise that suspiciously sounded like a laugh, covering it with a cough. “Eliza cannot assign agents on a whim.”

  Taking a long moment to smooth out her skirt, she asserted, “Oh, I can assure you that it was not on a whim. Eliza is training me to decipher codes and even showed me how to detect invisible ink.”

  “Why would you wish to know how to decrypt codes?” he asked, obviously not pleased by her confession.

  Leaning forward, Rachel lowered her voice. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “I keep secrets for a living.”

  “I am planning to write a book about a female spy and he
r adventures.”

  With narrowed eyes, Mr. Larson growled, “Unacceptable. You could expose Eliza.”

  Frowning, she leaned back against the bench. Rachel was used to disapproval whenever she told people about her plans to write a book, but his rejection stung. “I would never do that to her. I am writing about an agent that goes to America and helps bring down the rebels’ government, restoring English reign.” Giving him a disapproving look, she asked, “Or did you forget that England is at war with the American colonies again?”

  “Does this spy shoot the longbow?”

  “No, her weapon of choice is a pistol.” She smiled smugly. “And yes, I happen to be quite the marksman. I can shoot a pistol accurately up to twenty meters away.”

  Mr. Larson frowned, clearly not believing her. “That is quite the feat for a lady.”

  She ignored his skepticism. “Thank you. I also became proficient with a musket by joining my father’s fox hunts.”

  “Your father, the Earl of Exeter, allowed you to ride along on a fox hunt?” Mr. Larson drawled.

  “In a way,” Rachel admitted, giving a little one-sided shrug. “I may have dressed in men’s clothing and joined the hunt a few times before my father discovered me.”

  “Did he let you continue?”

  She shook her head in response. “No. He claimed it would cause a scandal and demanded that I stop.” She huffed, frustrated. “My parents fear that I am too much of a hoyden and are determined to make me a proper lady.”

  “And do you wish to be a proper lady?”

  Turning her head to glance out the window, Rachel winced at his words. “I know what Society expects from me, but I want more from life. I want to write a book. I want to fall in love, on my own terms. I want more…” Her voice trailed off, along with her thoughts. Then, in a tone far more confident than she felt, she continued, “I want adventure.”

  Mr. Larson lifted his brow in apparent disbelief. “A little over two months ago, you were abducted by the vile Mr. Wade, placed aboard a rat-infested brig with the intent of being sold to a brothel, and you single-handedly saved Eliza’s life by tripping Wade as he prepared to stab her. That was not adventurous enough?”

  Her fingers trailed along the bridge of her nose. It was slightly crooked since Mr. Wade had kicked her in the face. That had been his response to being tripped, which had caused him to lose his dagger and his advantage against Shadow. The force of the booted blow had momentarily rendered her unconscious, but she awoke in time to witness Eliza throwing a knife into Wade’s blackened heart.

  That experience caused her to hate being in dark, confined spaces. Her fear was so palpable she insisted her drapes remain open at night, allowing the moonlight to illuminate her bedchamber, and demanded all her windows to be nailed shut. The unshakable fear that accompanied the memory of being taken from her home at knife-point had caused many sleepless nights.

  Knowing that Mr. Larson was still waiting for her response, Rachel tried to find a way to explain her thoughts. “If I marry,” she began, giving him a pointed look, “I will be expected to behave as a proper lady, but until then, I want to experience what life has to offer. I want to help people and discover what I am truly capable of.”

  Mr. Larson nodded approvingly. “Now you sound like Eliza.”

  “I take that as a compliment.”

  “You should. It was meant as one.”

  Rachel tucked a piece of her unruly blonde hair behind her ear. No matter how many pins Savannah used to secure her hair, it refused to behave. It was ironic that her hair was almost identical to her personality. “Now, back to my original question. What is it like being a spy?”

  A flash of anguish passed through Mr. Larson’s eyes as he solemnly answered, “Lonely.” He cleared his throat. “Being a spy requires you to lose yourself in pursuit of a greater good.”

  “And have you lost yourself?” she asked curiously.

  For a long moment, he was silent, his face conveying mixed emotions. “I lost everything, including myself.” He hesitated, looking pained by his own admission. “That was until I was assigned to protect Eliza. She gave me a renewed purpose.”

  Giving him an understanding nod, Rachel prodded gently, “Have you always been an agent?”

  “No, I was in the British infantry before I was recruited by the home office.” His eyes focused on the passing green countryside. “My father died unexpectedly, and my mother needed me to go to work.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I was fifteen. My father was a blacksmith, but we had to sell off all his tools after he died. There was an accident in his shop, and he perished in the fire,” he revealed. “I couldn’t find employment anywhere in our small village, so I lied about my age and joined the army.”

  She couldn’t help but notice that Mr. Larson avoided making eye contact. There was a light sheen of moisture in his eyes before he blinked it away. “Your mother must have been very proud of you for taking on so much responsibility so young,” she said, attempting to comfort him.

  He looked at her, not bothering to disguise his anguish. “I joined the British army, and less than a month later, disease swept through our small village. She was one of the first to die. I wasn’t informed of her death for two years.”

  “I am sorry,” she sighed, softly.

  He acknowledged her comment with a nod. “Many years later, I came home between assignments from the home office and courted the daughter of a merchant. She was beautiful and kind,” he added wistfully, “but we were not meant to be.”

  “Why not?”

  He shifted in his seat, hesitantly. “I was assigned to assume an alias of Marcus Guilbault, the owner of a profitable inn alongside a well-traveled road near Paris. The French Army officers would routinely be guests of the inn, because our tavern did not water down the ale.”

  With a small smile, Rachel surmised, “If I had to guess, I bet the intoxicated officers divulged too much of their plans without realizing they were even doing so.”

  Mr. Larson’s face broke into a broad, approving smile, something she had never witnessed before. “The French are unbearable, but drunk French officers are comical.” He chuckled softly. “I once convinced a French captain that I was taking his map out to be laundered. By the time he woke up the next morning, his military map, showing the placement of troops, had been returned to his bag and the copied version was on its way to England.”

  “How long were you in France?”

  The smile faded from his face. “Too long.”

  “And the girl?”

  “Married my best friend.” Turning to glance out the window, his voice was resigned. “I was gone for so long that everyone assumed I was dead, including my fiancée.”

  With a surge of compassion rushing through her, Rachel saw not a hardened spy, but a man who had served his country fiercely, sacrificing everything in the process. “Mr. Larson,” she spoke softly, waiting for him to turn to face her, “you are a good man. I am grateful there are men like you willing to fight for king and country.”

  Her words had the intended effect, and the tension in his eyes dimmed. “Thank you, Lady Rachel.”

  “Although, you did threaten to kill me,” she pointed out with a teasing tone. “And, if I remember correctly, you threatened to kill my family and friends if I ever revealed who Shadow was.”

  “I did.” Appearing unrepentant, he crossed his arms over his chest. “If it helps, I have no desire to kill you now.”

  Surprised by his response, Rachel laughed. “Well, I thank you for that admission.”

  Mr. Larson nodded his response as the coach dipped to one side. Looking out the window, she saw they were nearing the rolling hills that eventually would lead to her destination.

  Her uncle’s estate was a twenty-minute ride from a small village called Rockcliffe, which lies on the eastern side of where the Urr Water and sea meet, creating an estuary. Not much happened in this quiet, sleepy village, but as darkened clouds loo
med ahead, she hoped that it was not a sign of things to come.

  2

  Two hours later, Rachel kept her gaze fixed on the scenery as the coach slowly wound up a long, curving dirt path. Beautiful, overflowing woodland trees lined both sides of the road, allowing only a small glimpse of the green fields that lay beyond. Playful red squirrels running up and down the birch trees simultaneously froze to watch the coach pass by.

  At the top of the hill sat a large, dignified estate, but it wasn’t the imposing size of the structure that gave her pause, it was the color. The walls were bright red. As they drew closer, she realized it wasn’t painted red but constructed with small red bricks. The coach jerked to a stop as she frowned. This was not the same estate she had visited as a girl. She would have remembered visiting a red home. She wondered what else had changed.

  Exiting the coach first, Mr. Larson turned back to assist her. As she placed her gloved hand into his, she hesitated. Her arrival was unexpected, and she hadn’t seen her aunt and uncle in years. How would they react to her impromptu visit? Would they welcome her with open arms or be furious at the imposition? Would they send her back to London?

  The apprehension must have shown on her face because Mr. Larson gently squeezed her fingers. “I will stay with you until I deem it is safe to depart.”

  Giving him a faint smile, Rachel replied, “I wanted adventure, right?”

  Mr. Larson nodded his response. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”