A Duke the Spy an Artist and a Lie Read online

  Books by Vanessa Riley

  A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby

  An Earl, the Girl, and a Toddler

  A Duke, the Spy, an Artist, and a Lie

  A Duke, the Spy, an Artist, and a Lie

  Vanessa Riley

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1 - FELTON LANCE

  CHAPTER 2 - FELTON LANCE

  CHAPTER 3 - FELTON—A TICKET TO THE BALL

  CHAPTER 4 - CECILIA CHARITY LANCE

  CHAPTER 5 - CECILIA—PAINTING FOR PLEASURE

  CHAPTER 6 - CECILIA—PAINTING FOR SURRENDER

  CHAPTER 7 - FELTON LANCE

  CHAPTER 8 - CECILIA—MAKING UP IS HARD TO DO

  CHAPTER 9 - FELTON—WIFE, I HAVE A PROFESSION

  CHAPTER 10 - CECILIA—MARRIAGE AND CHEESE

  CHAPTER 11 - FELTON—WAIT. WAIT, I’M IN LOVE

  CHAPTER 12 - FELTON—BAD DADDY

  CHAPTER 13 - FELTON—WORST DADDY

  CHAPTER 14 - FELTON—EMPTY BED

  CHAPTER 15 - CECILIA—A TRUE STUDIO

  CHAPTER 16 - FELTON—CLEANING HOUSE

  CHAPTER 17 - CECILIA—WERK-EN-RUST, DEMERARA

  CHAPTER 18 - CECILIA—ESCAPE FOR FREEDOM

  CHAPTER 19 - FELTON—BACK TO THE FUTURE

  CHAPTER 20 - CECILIA—REUNITED NOT QUITE

  CHAPTER 21 - FELTON—WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?

  CHAPTER 22 - CECILIA—MY LITTLE BOY

  CHAPTER 23 - FELTON—CONFESSION AND COCONUTS

  CHAPTER 24 - FELTON—FRIENDLY FOOLISH ADVICE

  CHAPTER 25 - CECILIA—A TERSE, NO GROVEL LETTER

  CHAPTER 26 - FELTON—THE DEVIL’S SUMMONS

  CHAPTER 27 - FELTON—THE DEVIL’S DUE

  CHAPTER 28 - CECILIA—ESTRANGED TAKES TWO

  CHAPTER 29 - FELTON—ENGAGING THE ART LOVERS

  CHAPTER 30 - CECILIA—SCAFFOLD WORK

  CHAPTER 31 - CECILIA—BEWILDERED AGREEMENT

  CHAPTER 32 - FELTON—COMMANDING THE THEATRE

  CHAPTER 33 - FELTON—THE HELPFUL HUSBAND

  CHAPTER 34 - CECILIA—RUMBLING REMORSE

  CHAPTER 35 - FELTON—PEACEFUL COFFEE BREAK

  CHAPTER 36 - CECILIA—ART APPRECIATION

  CHAPTER 37 - FELTON—WORTH HER WAGES

  CHAPTER 38 - CECILIA—BITTERSWEET SURRENDER

  CHAPTER 39 - CECILIA—WE ARE FAMILY

  CHAPTER 40 - CECILIA—A NEW BARGAIN

  CHAPTER 41 - FELTON—PACK THE WIFE, THE CHEESE, AND THE GUNS

  CHAPTER 42 - CECILIA—LIKE OLD TIMES

  CHAPTER 43 - FELTON—OFF TO KILL THE COUSIN

  CHAPTER 44 - CECILIA—THE HEADY HOWLING WOODS

  CHAPTER 45 - FELTON—PUTTING PIECES TOGETHER

  CHAPTER 46 - CECILIA—WALK AROUND THE INN

  CHAPTER 47 - FELTON—A SCHEME OR TWO MIGHT DO

  CHAPTER 48 - CECILIA—ALONE IN A CROWD

  CHAPTER 49 - CECILIA—DINNER FOR TWO

  CHAPTER 50 - FELTON—COZY ROOM FOR ONE

  CHAPTER 51 - CECILIA—BARN FIRE

  CHAPTER 52 - FELTON—A GOOD ROMAN SOLDIER

  CHAPTER 53 - CECILIA—A SPY’S SURRENDER

  CHAPTER 54 - FELTON—THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS

  CHAPTER 55 - CECILIA—ARRIVING AT WARWICK

  CHAPTER 56 - CECILIA—THE PORTRAIT

  CHAPTER 57 - FELTON—A FOOL FOR LOVE

  CHAPTER 58 - CECILIA—MIRACLE MORNING

  CHAPTER 59 - FELTON—MISSION OF LOVE

  CHAPTER 60 - CECILIA AND FELTON—THE THING ABOUT JAGUARS

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  RECIPES

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2022 by Vanessa Riley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-5227-2

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-5228-9 (ebook)

  For all those who do not fit normal,

  you are seen.

  Go paint the world in bright colors.

  CHAPTER 1

  FELTON LANCE

  October 18, 1814

  Fade into the burnished walls of the quaint study. Give nothing away about the painting or its artist. Pretend your soul has not been quickened by seeing her brush strokes.

  “The Ashbrooks have given it to me.” The Duchess of Repington stood behind Felton in this front room of Finchely House, the residence of Lord and Lady Ashbrook. “Lord Gantry? Are you well?

  Don’t flinch, David Felton Lance.

  Don’t move. Live to see another day.

  His body stiffened as blood pounded in his ears. If he stepped closer to the painting would the hypnotic power of the artist and her honeyed scent come through the oils and command his pulse?

  His resolve to admit nothing, to shield his heart from the damning questions gnawing at his chest took control.

  Yet he couldn’t break his stare and face the duchess.

  How could he pretend to not know the artist? If he closed his eyes, he’d see Cilia’s small, gifted arms stretching, her talented hands whisking a brush about a canvas as her perfect hourglass figure tolled that time was up for them, for their marriage, for the dreams he’d begun to imagine before she abandoned him.

  Her Grace tapped his shoulder. “Lord Gantry, you don’t seem well at all. Should I get a doctor?”

  “No.” It was all he could say. He’d come to fetch the duchess in service to his friend, the Duke of Repington. To look at Her Grace would give away his hopes. The torture of wishing for a different but similar countenance to look back at him would be his undoing.

  Her footfalls tapped in front of him, blocking his view of the painting, the tropical landscape of the mythical Port Royal.

  “You’re not well. Some men cannot handle being around a woman with child. Even a military man can become squeamish.”

  That wasn’t it. He was a career military lieutenant with years of service in intelligence for the Department of War and the Colonies. He’d seen all manner of things and done the indescribable in service to the Crown. “No, a pregnant woman is beautiful.”

  The duchess’s tawny brow arched. She thought him lying.

  This woman didn’t know the pain in his heart. Cold and calculating to some, bumbling and joyous to others, withdrawn and analytical to most—no one saw his true nature . . . well, one person did.

  Then she left him.

  Her Grace nudged him. “Lord Gantry?”

  It was best to be silent than to volunteer information that would make him look more of a fool or say something that could shock a lady.

  “I know something is wrong. Tell me now. The duke and I and even the Widow’s Grace
will help.”

  Her voice was soft, as though she knew she’d summoned Felton from a nightmare, one that had consumed him for the past ten months.

  The panic, the sheer terror of his Cilia being missing, being alone somewhere in England, made his skin tight, the scars to his shoulders pained.

  Balling his hands behind him, he walked to the painting and took it off the wall. “Too many things on my mind. I think I’ve seen a copy of this somewhere. I . . . I should get you back to Sandlin Court.”

  Her Grace put a hand on his elbow. “I’m captivated by the beaches, too. The port city looks as if you can walk right into the canvas and be there. I’m mesmerized.”

  Mesmerized was a good way to describe what he felt.

  “Sir, you do look pale, like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “An Obeah spirit, Your Grace?” Definitely one of the past. “I haven’t seen such detailed brush strokes in a long time. Look, ma’am, at the ice-blue waves curling to the land. The huts mingled with the wooden buildings with red and green shutters. It’s the best of Jamaica. The legendary Port Royal with the dark clouds in the offing. That’s destruction. The artist has a great imagination and a sense of irony.”

  She picked up the painting before he could stop her, but he grasped the edges. The duchess was in a delicate condition with her abdomen slightly beginning to show. She needed no strain.

  “Yes. I see how the clouds change. It looks so true, like this was a window.”

  “Port Royal was joyous and then destroyed in a single day by a hurricane and an earthquake.” Cecilia did have a wicked sense of humor, or was this her expression of them as a couple, happy and then ripped apart in a day? Guilt and memories and unrequited love dumped down his tightening throat. He coughed not to drown. “When did Lord Ashbrook say he purchased this?”

  “I think recently. That’s what Lady Ashbrook told me. It gives me hope that such talent is here in London.”

  Eyeing the proud woman of tawny complexion and small topaz eyes, he wondered who’d confess to recognizing the artist first.

  The duchess retreated and took up her reticule and the cloth that her morning sickness might require if her jittery stomach didn’t settle. “I’m ready to go, Lord Gantry.”

  Cradling the painting as if it were a child, like one of his daughters when they were babes, he led Her Grace to his carriage.

  It was a silent drive to the duke’s residence in Town. Neither he nor the duchess seemed to want full disclosure. Asking a pregnant woman about the artist’s disappearance could lead to an upset in Her Grace’s delicate condition that shouldn’t be done. Like all the secrets he kept for the Department of War and the Colonies, he’d keep this one close while doing all he could to find his wife. It seemed Cecilia was alive and in London, painting again and perhaps ready to forgive and fight for their marriage.

  CHAPTER 2

  FELTON LANCE

  October 20, 1811, Three Years Earlier

  Felton liked all of his assignments in the West Indies—except the ones like this which could get him killed.

  The heat of the day crept into the office he and his colleague had entered in the government building located in Stabroek, Demerara.

  In the humid air, his long sleeves stuck to him as did his waistcoat and jacket. He needed to maintain the persona of an English gentleman coming to look at property in the colony, not that of a British operative.

  Yeoman Johnson peeked through the cracked door. “We must hurry, Gantry. More people are gathering in the hall. I thought tonight’s ball would keep them away.”

  “The information is not here.” Felton eased the drawer shut. “And balls are dangerous things. Do you know how many matchmaking mamas are out there?”

  “Not as dangerous as Dutch soldiers with guns. We need to leave.” His friend laughed. It was quiet and merry. The transplant from Grenada loved life, justice, and his three-month-old son. “You might need to get in touch with one of those mamas, Gantry. You’ve been widowed now two years. You might want to think of being caught and staying home. Those two girls of yours would like that. I’m thinking of this too. We can’t always be savin’ the world.”

  The dark bronzed face lit with an internal glow when he smiled. He was wise and a good spy.

  And he was right about Felton’s girls.

  Amelia, his precocious two-year-old, and Agatha, his pique-inducing three-year-old, would enjoy him not taking his long trips, but he was no good for them. His sister, Lady Jane, and his aunts, godsends, stepped in to help his now motherless girls.

  A wife to soften him and help guide his young girls would be the best course of action.

  Yet, that would play into his father’s hands. The Marquess of Tramel would find him another wife and use her as a way to manipulate Felton. You’d think the man had enough time on his hands waiting for Felton’s grandfather, the fourth duke of Tramel, to die.

  His late Elizabeth was strong, but she fell privy to Tramel’s influence and his purse, which controlled every decision, such as where Felton’s family should live.

  The loss of his practical, understanding wife changed everything, and he threw himself headlong into his work to assuage his guilt of leaving her alone too much during her last pregnancy.

  “You’ve gone silent about a new wife. Gantry, did you fine something in that desk?” Johnson chuckled, a deep baritone laugh.

  He shook his head. “Too many missions to remarry now. But if her face and fortune are fine, I could be tempted.”

  “Logical, Gantry. Always logical.” Johnson leaned against the cracked door. “Perhaps when we’re done, you might think of slipping into tonight’s festivities. I hear Mr. Thomas is showing off his girls tonight at the subscription ball. It’s the perfect place to hide until the streets clear.”

  “Save my boots, I’m dressed for it.”

  “You blend in. Nothing but white men coming to look for a wealthy man’s daughters, particularly his mixed ones. If you’re not particular on the color of the money, you’ll find quite a few tidy sums and lovely backsides.”

  His friend talked a lot of guff for a happily married man.

  “The woman who’d turn my head, Johnson, has to be special. She’d need to be understanding and loyal. I don’t intend to give up my work, which means long absences for the Crown. I don’t want to fret about her bringing special new friends to my cold bed or her being neglectful of my daughters.”

  Searching another desk and coming up with nothing, Felton folded his arms. “The information was to be here. The informant who is helping the blockade runner sink our ships needs to be stopped. Good men are dying.”

  The perspiration that dampened his brow began to pool at his collar and run cold down Felton’s heated back. Hot natured all his life, he should revel in a climate made for shedding clothes and rolling up sleeves, but Felton remained buttoned. Smallpox scars marring his arms were hard to keep secret in sweat-inducing environments.

  Johnson returned to the door. “More people. Someone has told them that we’d strike tonight. We’re in trouble.”

  Felton’s neck prickled. He adjusted the ribbon pulling back his hair. “We can’t stay and find out. We are too far for the Department of War and the Colonies to send help.”

  Holding his hand out, Johnson signaled one, two, three, four, five. That meant there were five additional men milling in the dimly lit hall close to the office they burglarized. They were compromised. They had to become invisible.

  Felton closed his eyes and slowed his breath.

  Calm.

  Think.

  Plan.

  That was the mantra that had always saved his life. He just needed to get himself and Johnson out of the building and to stay hidden from the soldiers until they could get out of Demerara. “I should’ve brought Old Brown, the best blunderbuss pistol.”

  “Let’s go out the window, Gantry. You have girls to go home to. I’ve got my family, my new son. We survive this one, I’m done.”

&n
bsp; “That will be what we discuss on the boat out of here.” He looked out the window. “We’re up a story. It’s going to be a bit of a jump.”

  “Like the cliffs in Grenada, just without the water. Remember?”

  That was crazy, but he and Johnson and their comrade Watson survived. “You first.”

  Cracking open the shutters, Felton saw two soldiers doing rounds chatting. Their words were bits of Dutch, maybe French. “I’m rusty on anything but guilders.”

  “Ya one to know Dutch money, my friend.” Johnson’s accent was thicker, as if he practiced how to blend in with the locals. He’d become invisible. Felton would stand out. It would be difficult to survive the night, but they’d always been lucky in the Caribbean.

  “Johnson, the soldiers have cleared. Out the window. Hide in the brush. Get back to the docks in the morning. Since I stand out, I’ll be a bumbling drunk and make enough noise for you to get away.”

  “A drunk is not invisible, my friend. Not your usual approach but a white man has less chance of getting shot.” Johnson clasped hands with Felton.

  His soulful dark eyes said all that the two men would never voice—the respect and unspoken thank-yous for saving someone’s hide, stopping a bar fight, or stymying a bullet. “Good luck.”

  His friend climbed out the window; the athletic fellow dropped then rolled until he made it undetected into the bushes lining the road.

  Before he could join Johnson, guards came around again. He ducked down. His heart pounded, and he whipped his head from the office door to the window.

  Times like this, with his chest gonging, he missed boring London and being a gentleman in the country. Johnson was right. How much longer could he do these missions with his girls needing him to stay alive?

  They’d mourned too much.

  He’d liked to think he’d stopped wars and disarmed attacks on the British vessels with the information he and his counterparts like Johnson purloined for the Department of War and the Colonies.