Page 2 of After the Spy Seduces

The enemy.

Garrett Morgan. A less likely man to be meeting with French agents Kit couldn’t imagine. For all that he’d personally seen of the man, Morgan had always struck Kit as…well, annoying. Eager to blame his failings on others. Never happy with his situation and always complaining that life had given him a raw deal. Mostly, he blamed his father, whining to his chums at the gambling hells that General Thaddeus Morgan possessed unrealistic expectations for him, ones he could never live up to.

While there might have been some truth in that last—after all, Kit had served under the general and knew how demanding he could be—Garrett Morgan’s failures were largely his own. He’d fallen short first in the army where he didn’t have the discipline to thrive, then later at university where he lacked the intellect necessary to distinguish himself. Now, at an age when he should have already been established in some sort of career and a household of his own, he still resided with his father and two sisters, living off the graces of his family and shirking all sense of responsibility.

Kit grimaced inwardly. The exact same could be said of him.

The difference, however, was that Kit was a decorated agent of the Crown who had to keep his work with the Home Office secret, while Garrett Morgan had murdered James Fitch-Batten in cold blood.

Fitch…His chest tightened with the sickening pang of guilt that he’d come to expect but would never grow used to. Because his long-time partner and best friend had been beaten nearly beyond recognition one night six months ago, then had his throat slit from ear to ear. Because it was Kit’s fault.

Because it should have been him instead.

But tonight he would finally catch the man responsible. And make the bastard pay.

The tavern door opened. A man paused in the doorway, his large frame silhouetted by the lamp hanging from the doorpost outside.

Awareness spooled down Kit’s spine. One of the Frenchmen arriving for tonight’s meeting, he was certain. And early, just as expected. Just as Kit would have done himself if he’d been meeting with a new contact. Most likely, somewhere in the tavern crowd around him, sat more Frenchmen, waiting and watching. All of them, just like Kit, pretending to be nothing more than another man out for an evening’s entertainment.

As his gaze followed the man across the tavern to an empty table in the corner, that old, familiar sensation sparked inside him that nothing was as it seemed. Instantly, he grew suspicious of every man in the room, especially the ones who seemed to belong there. Like him.

But tonight, there was no reprieve from suspicion and distrust. After six months of pursuit, the endgame was finally in motion, and his heart pounded brutally at knowing that justice would be granted. If everything went according to plan, Kit would have not only the man who’d murdered his partner but also the evidence necessary to make him swing.

Now he simply had to wait for Morgan to arrive.

The barmaid fluttered her hand temptingly over his shoulder. “Perhaps when yer through talkin’ with your friend,” she suggested, “ye’d like to go upstairs an’ relax.” Her fingers kneaded into his hard muscle. “I’m good at makin’ gentlemen relaxed, and yer in sore need of some attention.”

His lips twisted at the irony. She had no idea how much he needed exactly that. Every muscle in his body was so tight that he was nothing but a ball of knots, every inch of him tensed and ready to spring at a moment’s notice. Yet tonight he didn’t have the luxury of losing himself in comforting arms, if only for a few hours before the harsh light of day arrived and reminded him of exactly who he was.

“That sounds enticing,” he answered instead. “But what about my horse?”

She blinked, bewildered. “Your…horse?”

“Surely you’re curious to see it.” He trailed a fingertip across the top swells of her breasts, her bodice so low that she was nearly spilling out of it. “After all, you know what they say about the size of a man’s horse.”

“No.” She toyed with his dark blond hair where it curled against his jacket collar and in her curiosity was unable to resist asking, “What do they say?”

He brought his mouth to her ear and drawled such a lewd description of horses and naked women that the barmaid shifted back on his knee to stare at him, her eyes wide with shock.

Feigning innocence, he asked, “Does this mean you won’t wear spurs?”

She slapped him. Hard.

A thunder of laughter erupted from the men around him who had witnessed the skirmish, and she scrambled off his lap with whatever last bit of dignity she could summon. For a moment, he thought she might slap him again, just for good measure. But with a loudhumph!she jabbed her nose into the air and stomped away.

Kit happily watched her go. He wouldn’t receive another offer by her or any of the other barmaids tonight.

Good.The last thing he needed now was distraction.

The door opened again a few minutes later, right as the long case clock in the common room struck the hour. Kit casually took a sip of ale and watched another man pause in the doorway. Another stranger who raised the hairs on his nape, then set them into full-out tingling when the young man looked slowly around the room, searching the crowd…and found the Frenchman in the corner.

Short and slight of build, with slender shoulders and narrow hips beneath a brown jacket and breeches that were both too big for him, the young man reached between his legs to adjust himself before sauntering toward the Frenchman. His collar was turned up against the rain outside, an old tricorne pulled down low over his ears. Just enough of his face remained visible to reveal a thin moustache.

NotGarrett Morgan.

Could his contacts have been wrong, and Morgan wasn’t meeting with French operatives tonight in the tavern? No. Kit had never been misled by the men who’d pointed him here.

Something else was going on, something that put him on alert as he watched the young man enter the barroom. Not more than fifteen or sixteen based on the size of him and the smoothness of his cheeks, the lad sat across the small table from the Frenchman. He hunched down, drawing up his shoulders, then wiped his nose on his sleeve.