A Spy to Call My Own: A Ravensdale World Book Read online

  A Spy to Call My Own

  Rebecca Paula

  A SPY TO CALL MY OWN

  Copyright © 2017 by Rebecca Paula. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. Originally published in the HER MAJESTY’S SCOUNDRELS anthology.

  For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher, Rebecca Paula.

  A Spy To Call My Own is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For information about the author, visit www.RebeccaPaula.com.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  About the Author

  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

  Epilogue

  Books by Rebecca Paula

  About the Author

  Rebecca writes sexy, angsty romances about flawed characters who embrace the messy and complicated bits of life and love. Also, there’s kissing.

  She’s a champion of Byronic heroes and unlikeable heroines, a wanderlust connoisseur, a hopeless romantic, and is epically losing the battle of conquering her TBR pile. Rebecca lives in New Hampshire with her husband and young daughters.

  When not writing or reading, she loves binging ghost hunting shows and true crime podcasts, hiking around New England, and scouring stores for the ultimate find - cute dresses with pockets!

  Let’s stay in touch! Share your favorite Tom Hardy gifs with Rebecca on Facebook, follow her on Instagram, or sign up for her newsletter for the latest on new releases, sales, and exclusive content.

  Prologue

  Girton College - England

  April 1898

  If Vera had learned anything in her short life, it was that men were seldom likely to listen to a suffragette.

  She threw open the door to her small room, tossing down her speaking trumpet and books with a defeated sigh. One day, they would listen. One day she would be addressing a room full of scholars for a lecture. But for all her grand vision of changing the world today, it hadn’t happened.

  Today she had organized a small march on campus only to have two other students join her. Crushing the patriarchy would never happen with three women. She glanced to her wall where an illustration of Emily Davies hung between paintings of primroses and poppies. Even her hero looked as if she were frowning.

  Her orange tabby, Hugo, circled around her legs, chirping angrily because of an empty food dish. She rummaged through the chest at the foot of her bed and removed the crusty heel of bread she saved from her meal last evening, and tore it up into small chunks. She reached into her bag and withdrew a small glass container of milk, pouring it over the bread.

  “If you weren’t such a pacifist, Hugo, you might have something more than bread and milk to eat.”

  The cat promptly buried his face in the dish.

  She stood, stretching her arms above her head to gaze out the large window where her desk sat. She supposed she had more articles to write and submit to women’s magazines. But the refusal from Miss Davies was still too fresh. The pile of rejections made it difficult for her to close her desk drawer now. Onward and upward was grand, but no one ever spoke of slogging through the painful middle, waiting.

  Vera hummed, tidying up, to discover an unopened telegram on the floor. Pausing, she noticed it was from home. That was odd. Her family never sent telegrams.

  She read it, then again as all the air from her lungs left her body on a crushing blow.

  Tom dead in accident. Come home immediately. Aunt Eleanora.

  Vera collapsed to the floor, clutching the telegram in one hand and bracing her chest with the other. “Tom,” she whispered, tears burning her eyes.

  He had only just returned home from another grand adventure as a cartographer somewhere within the depths of Africa. As her big brother, he had often told her his life wasn’t one of glamour, but rather one of sweat and bugs. She knew he only said so to make her feel better about being stuck in England, satisfying her aunt and the rest of society by attending social functions and being groomed to be a wife. She had thought, however foolishly, Tom would take her with him just once on an expedition.

  She rubbed her tears away with the back of her fists, her heart breaking in her chest with each beat.

  He had surprised her only last week by showing up at Girton, taking her for tea, patiently pushing aside her proclamations that she was too preoccupied with her last year of studies to see him. He had tried to tell her of the work he and his friend Owen were doing, and she had thanked him for visiting, and hurried back to her day. And now…

  She flattened to the ground, twisting her torso to reach for her luggage beneath the bed. She tugged on her small leather suitcase until it emerged in a cloud of dust. Hugo came over to investigate, rubbing against her shoulder while purring loudly.

  The door opened, and her roommate Ida entered, whistling. “It couldn’t have been so bad that you need to flee, Vera.”

  Vera braced her elbows on the top of her mattress and pulled herself up to stand. The words sat heavy on her tongue, and she wished for just a few more moments without having to utter them. But she was needed at home.

  “When did this telegram arrive?” she asked, waving the telegram in her hand. Vera rushed to her small closet and grabbed a handful of dresses, turning to her roommate.

  Ida’s face drained of color as she dropped her gaze to the floor. “Why?”

  Vera tossed the dresses in the open case on the bed, anger bubbling fresh where the heartache had been. “My brother is dead,” she snapped, trying to fold and stuff the dresses into the case.

  “Oh, Vera. I’m sorry to hear—”

  “When did it arrive?”

  “It arrived yesterday. I placed it on my desk to tell you—”

  Glass shattered in an explosive burst, drawing her and Ida back against her door as the planted fern beside their heads on the dresser ruptured, causing soil to set off like a blast of fireworks.

  Kneeling and holding Ida in her arms, Vera glanced up. A sharp ring echoed in her ear, as the world around her seemed to wobble for a moment. “Are you hurt?” she asked Ida, peering from her place against the wall to the courtyard outside. No one was there, only the twisted oak tree.

  “Who did you upset this time?” Ida stood, worry etched in her furrowed brunette brow. She fingered the hole in the wallpaper, revealing a small hole in the plaster behind what used to have been a large fern plant.

  “I hadn’t upset anyone to warrant being shot at.” She pushed off from the door, her mind racing through the faces of those in town. She had been referred to as a nuisance before, but no one had ever threatened her harm. “Why would anyone do this?”

  She hedged toward the broken window, her hand braced on her stomach as she held her breath, expecting to come face with the person who had just shot through the window. But there was no one. Except…

  She narrowed her eyes. Two buildings away, a figure was being wrestled to the rooftop.

  Ida joined her, bracing an arm around Vera’s shoulder. “We need to tell Matron. We have to contact the police. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

  Vera remained quiet, as the figure was apprehended and escorted down into the bu
ilding. Her heart warred between sadness and fright. It was high time the day was over, but she had the sinking realization that something larger had just begun.

  Three Weeks Later

  Tom’s cottage was idyllic, perched beside the River Don, the garden had always been meticulous, even while he was away. But something seemed off as Vera entered through the garden gate to the small stone cottage. The rose vines, though too early to be in bloom, still twisted around and over the arbor over the pale blue door. The stone path was clear, the box hedges trimmed. Perhaps it was the lack of light coming from within. Maybe it was just that the cottage would no longer hold his laugh, once so infectious and full of life.

  Ida had cautioned Vera about rushing back to her family’s aid, causing her to be mindful how quick she could be forced to give up her career at Girton. But with news of Tom’s death, there was no other choice. Her mother was still away on the Continent for a rest cure, and since her father’s passing two years prior, there was no one left beside Vera to look after her siblings, Pearl and Felix.

  Since leaving Girton after receiving the telegram about Tom’s death, she had paid several visits with Aunt Eleanora to a solicitor. Her older brother had apparently set aside a modest amount for the care of Vera’s younger siblings. It was a sizable amount considering his profession. Perhaps that was the advantage of being a traveling bachelor.

  And with the additional money from the sale of Tom’s cottage, there would be money to sustain Vera until graduation. After that, she supposed she would take a position teaching, or if everything else failed, she could become a governess.

  A pair of sparrows dove from the elm tree by the sitting room window as Vera twisted the key in the old lock, careful not to disturb the customary black crepe and white ribbon over the door handle for mourning. It was a beautiful spring day, one that felt a bit colder because of her business at the cottage. She had taken leave from Girton College for the rest of the semester, and now was responsible for packing and sorting out Tom’s cottage.

  She paused in the doorway as the door swung open to a darkened sitting room. Once, a few years prior, there had been a man sitting in that navy wingback chair—the most beautiful man she had ever set eyes upon. Tom had thrown open the door and embraced her, swinging her in a small circle before setting her down. Vera had been full of laughter and mirth, then met the eyes of the stranger, sitting stoically with his left arm in a sling, his face bruised and cut—and the world fell away. In a moment, her heart had been his.

  Vera blinked away the memory, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. Crepe draped over the small mirror above the stone hearth and the curtains had been pulled shut. Everything appeared in order as she walked through the small rooms to draw the curtains open, but an uneasiness settled in her chest as she scanned over the bookshelves and the rest of his belongings, then finally upon the stopped clock in the hallway.

  “Oh, my.”

  She startled, bracing a hand on her stomach as she came face to face with a strange suit of armor upon entering his study. With a grimace, she stepped around it and proceeded to his desk. Vera ran her fingers over the desktop, tracing over the lines from his pen etched into the wood beyond the blotter. Maps lay folded, stacked high, to the right. A collection of books graced the left. What was she to do with everything?

  “Hello,” a sweet voice called from the front sitting room. Aunt Eleanora’s voice was deceiving—she was anything but sweet if you broke etiquette. Vera was fairly sure the woman had never forgiven her for passing up the London Season to become a Girton girl.

  “I’m in the study,” Vera called out, noticing a sculpture of Buddha that had been moved recently, judging by the thick ring of dust to its left.

  “You should see what Felix can do with his eye,” Pearl shouted excitedly, rushing into the room in a blur of deep mourning dress. The girl’s red ringlets bounced as she tugged at Vera’s hand, drawing her forward.

  At fifteen, Pearl was the bastard daughter of a factory worker instead of an earl like Aunt Eleanora would have preferred. She had always aspired to marry into the peerage, and because Vera had disappointed her on that front, what little hope she had left must have remained in Pearl, which is why she was to attend finishing school. Vera’s father had accepted Pearl as his own, even with the scandal of her birth. By the time Felix was born, the whispers that bitterly filled the parlors of Sheffield became too much for her mother to bear, and she had fled to the Continent.

  “Not now, child,” Aunt Eleanora said, sweeping her arm across Pearl’s tiny frame and ushering the girl out of the study. “There is much to do today.”

  “I can help,” said Felix, running up the short hallway on long legs. “I can.” At nine years, Felix was in a constant state of disrepair, either his trousers needed mending or his jumper was torn. He was a magnet for trouble, but as the youngest of the Attwater siblings, he often got away with everything.

  “You look exhausted, dear,” Aunt Eleanora said. Her hands knitted themselves together in front of her black dress. “Perhaps we should take today—”

  “No.” Vera glanced at the crooked photograph of Japanese countryside on the wall, refraining from straightening it. So much had already been altered in the house to erase the death of her brother, she was desperate for some small thing to remain the same. “Today will do.”

  Her aunt nodded, her pale lips pulled into a tight line. “I know it’s hard to accept the idea that Tom is gone, Vera, but he wouldn’t want you to worry yourself over him to the point you make yourself ill. With your mother’s constitution for nerves, and all.”

  Vera turned to her aunt, her eyebrows arched in surprise at the bold slip. Vera’s mother was fine, it was only that she escaped to the Continent for the shame of having two children with men beside her husband. It had been years now, but she was too much of a coward to face the matrons of Sheffield.

  “Your mother loves you all,” her aunt said diplomatically.

  “Yes, so much so that she couldn’t return home to bury her oldest son.”

  “Vera Ruth Attwater.” Brown, beady eyes stared her down. “That sharp tongue of yours will be the end of any hope of seeing you married. Your sass is hardly acceptable at a time like this.”

  “Tom was an excellent rider,” Vera said, her mind racing ahead. “I understand accidents happen, but I find it hard to believe Tom was killed because he was thrown from a horse.”

  Her aunt backed away toward the door, the hard look in her eyes fading. “It’s shock, darling. In time it will fade.”

  “But it won’t be any easier.”

  “I’m afraid not, no.” Aunt Eleanora ran her hands over her skirts. “I’ll see that the children are settled and then we’ll begin, yes?”

  Vera nodded, turning back to the window that faced a small creek and paddock. Perhaps it was only shock. Perhaps that was why she felt so unsettled since word of Tom’s death. But still, she felt there was more, something larger to that story.

  Sighing, she fell into the worn leather seat, surveying the room. It would take a day at least to pack up the books in here alone, longer if she were to sort them and decide which to keep. She leaned forward and opened the pullout drawer, clearing away small tokens from around the world, a pair of dice, and a stack of papers.

  There, at the bottom, sat a photograph. By its condition, the photograph had never been carried around. It was as if Tom had meant for it to stay safely tucked away in his study in the middle of England. The familiar ache radiated in her chest as she looked upon the face of Tom, his arms akimbo as they stood in his garden that summer long ago. Beside him, Vera gazed upon him in adoration, her mouth stretched into a smile. And that man, the one who stole her heart sat close by her side, his handsome face masked in a studied seriousness. It was only that his hand was close to Vera’s that hinted more lay between them.

  Owen.

  But he had left her too. Just as her fiancé, Otto, did last year, passing away unexpectedly after the
Russian flu swept through England. It was the second truth she had learned in her short twenty years—she was meant to live life alone.

  She rose, tucking the photo into the pocket of her apron. It would serve her well to see to a fire and chase away the early spring chill, but first a jacket of Tom’s might help warm her. Even with Pearl and Felix playing in the garden, the general quietness of the cottage stirred uneasiness within her. There was something odd about the cottage, as though someone had tried to recreate it. It was a strange feeling, especially as everything was in its rightful spot. Since receiving the telegram about her brother’s death, the world seemed much larger, much more out of control than she was used to. Surely, that was the feeling that claimed her now.

  Tom’s bedroom was small, furnished only with a bed, washing table, and wardrobe. The whitewashed walls made the room appear much larger than it was. The right corner of an Oriental rug underfoot was shoved up against the wardrobe, which was itself pulled crookedly away from the wall.

  Odd, that.

  Vera opened his wardrobe and pulled out the suits hanging up inside, piling them up onto the bed. Perhaps the church would have some use for them. She emptied the wardrobe, finding a thick wool cardigan tucked away in the back that would warm her nicely. Vera pulled it on, pausing when she felt something strange against her chest. She removed the sweater, studying the extra pocket that had been sewn into it. There was no opening, just a large square of flannel.

  She searched through his desk and found a thin letter opener to remove the neat stitches. With a few tugs, she removed a folded piece of parchment. Vera opened it, walking closer to the window to get a better look.