The Uncompromising Lord Flint Read online

  Imprisoned by her past

  Set free by her enemy!

  Part of The King’s Elite. Charged with high treason, Lady Jessamine Fane’s under the watchful eye of icily calm Lord Peter Flint. A task this spy won’t be swayed from, no matter how alluring his prisoner! Only, it’s not long before Flint realizes tenacious Jess hides a lifetime of pain. With so much at stake, can he afford to take a chance on their powerful attraction?

  The King’s Elite miniseries

  Book 1—The Mysterious Lord Millcroft

  Book 2—The Uncompromising Lord Flint

  Book 3—The Disgraceful Lord Gray—available April 2019

  And look out for the last book in the miniseries coming soon!

  “The Mysterious Lord Millcroft is thrilling, exhilarating, sensual, seductive, alluring, and so, so, so very romantic.”

  —Goodreads on The Mysterious Lord Millcroft by Virginia Heath

  “Historical romance does not get any better than The Mysterious Lord Millcroft.”

  —Goodreads on The Mysterious Lord Millcroft by Virginia Heath

  The King’s Elite

  Scandals, secrets, spies...

  Members of the ton’s most illustrious undercover organization are charged with protecting king and country at all cost! And while danger lurks around every corner, they are willing to lay their lives on the line for the crown.

  When four young women become entangled with them—and their assignments—suddenly being the king’s men pales in comparison to the new risks these daring ladies pose...

  Discover Seb and Clarissa’s story in

  The Mysterious Lord Millcroft

  Already available

  And share in Flint and Jess’s story in

  The Uncompromising Lord Flint

  Available now

  Look for Gray’s story.

  Coming soon.

  Author Note

  The unflappable character of Flint has been in the background in two previous books—A Warriner to Seduce Her and The Mysterious Lord Millcroft. It’s about time he had his own story, although I confess I knew little about him when I started this book. He was a dedicated spy and aristocrat.

  The heroine was a completely different kettle of fish. Jessamine was in my head from the first sentence—fiery, temperamental, resourceful. A woman who had lived a tragic life and who was desperate to escape it. It became apparent on page one that she was the exact opposite of my calm and collected spy.

  Their first meeting takes place in a cell with her charged with treason, an unlikely beginning to a love story, I’ll grant you. But from then on, Flint emerged. A man who trusts his head and distrusts emotions, a man who puts duty above everything, a man who likes to be able to control as much as he can with a cool, calm and pragmatic head. A man who is as uncompromising as he is precise. A man whose idea of hell on earth is being stuck playing gaoler to a woman who possesses none of these characteristics.

  Watching Jess run rings around him and take him to the furthest edges of his patience was huge fun. But watching Jess learn to trust for the first time and fall in love with a real gentleman was adorable. Because love, mixed with a little compromise, really does conquer all.

  VIRGINIA HEATH

  The Uncompromising

  Lord Flint

  When Virginia Heath was a little girl, it took her ages to fall asleep, so she made up stories in her head to help pass the time while she was staring at the ceiling. As she got older, the stories became more complicated—sometimes taking weeks to get to their happy ending. One day she decided to embrace her insomnia and start writing them down. Virginia lives in Essex with her wonderful husband and two teenagers. It still takes her forever to fall asleep...

  Books by Virginia Heath

  Harlequin Historical

  That Despicable Rogue

  Her Enemy at the Altar

  The Discerning Gentleman’s Guide

  Miss Bradshaw’s Bought Betrothal

  His Mistletoe Wager

  The King’s Elite

  The Mysterious Lord Millcroft

  The Uncompromising Lord Flint

  The Wild Warriners

  A Warriner to Protect Her

  A Warriner to Rescue Her

  A Warriner to Tempt Her

  A Warriner to Seduce Her

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.

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  For Monique Daoust

  Who gave the French part of Jessamine her voice.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Excerpt from A Marriage Deal with the Viscount by Bronwyn Scott

  Chapter One

  Late May 1820

  ‘English pigs!’

  The wrought-iron bars rattled again as another hailstorm of stale breadcrumbs hit him squarely in the face. She might well be a traitor and a termagant, but Lady Jessamine Fane’s aim was reliably accurate.

  ‘I’m sorry, my lord. Had we known she was stockpiling her rations to use as weapons we would have relieved her of them.’

  Lord Peter Flint dusted the latest baked embellishments from his lapels and smiled tightly. ‘Pay it no mind, Captain. This is an unusual situation for all of us.’ It wasn’t every day that a Royal Navy frigate became a floating prison for one inmate and a female one at that. Nor did he, in the usual run of things, find himself the reluctant gaoler of one, tasked with dragging her foul-mouthed and fiery carcass back to London. A job that he was now prepared to concede might not be as simple as he had first thought. Lady Jessamine did not strike him as one who would go meekly. Or even quietly. The blasted woman had been hurling abuse at them for the better part of half an hour. Hell, she’d been yelling from the moment he boarded the ship and they had set sail an hour ago. A constant tirade of pithy, imaginative and noisy invective issued alongside the flying food from her nest in the shadows.

  ‘Can we bring some more lanterns down here?’

  The brig was unnecessarily dark and forbidding, the heavy, windowless timbers of the hull creaking as they rocked on the tide. Her collection of missiles would be more easily avoided with the addition of some light and he wanted to know exactly what and whom he was dealing with and, no matter what she had done, it seemed a tad cruel to keep her in the dark.

  Flint was yet to see her face properly. It was buried in a ratty tangle of dark curls. All he could properly ascertain was despite her strength she was small, judging from the petite size of the grubby hands which gesticulated wildly in a Gallic fashion. Yet her surprisingly sultry French-accented voice and impressive
repertoire of insults suggested she was no girl. Not much of a lady either, but then what had he expected?

  Lady Jessamine might have once been the daughter of an English earl, but a decade had passed since she had been ripped out of her British life by her traitorous French mother. A mother who had fled England to live openly in sin with her French lover. The Comte de Saint-Aubin-de-Scellon had been one of Napoleon’s biggest supporters. He was still one of his most loyal supporters, if their intelligence was to be believed, and the lynchpin of the French side of the smuggling ring they were yet to destroy. In view of her bohemian and scandalous upbringing, her lack of morals hardly came as a shock. Nor did the treason. As the Comte had had more of a hand in Lady Jessamine’s upbringing than her own father, it was hardly a surprise that her allegiance was staunchly with the enemy.

  Like mother, like daughter.

  Except the loud-mouthed Jessamine had done more than share a bed with the enemy. If the mounting evidence was to be believed, she had committed all manner of atrocities which had seen good men die. Men he considered friends as well as comrades in arms. Once she had served her purpose and spilled her secrets she would likely hang. And rightly so. All Flint had to do was deliver her to Lord Fennimore, the courts and the lawyer Hadleigh and then he would be shot of her and her foul temper.

  Above him, he listened to the sounds of the huge canvas sails snapping in the wind and knew the next few days would not be pleasant despite their fast speed. Aside from this ocean journey, he would then have to spend days stuck in a coach with her. It couldn’t be helped. He was between missions and the rest of the King’s Elite were either in the thick of it or on honeymoon. His friend and fellow spy Jake Warriner had been the first to fall into the parson’s trap, something which still came as a shock considering Jake had always been a committed and cheerful rake determinedly averse to settling down. He had been closely followed by Seb Leatham, who had gone and married an effervescent incomparable despite his painful shyness around women. As both friends had been working on the same mission to catch exactly the same smugglers as Flint, their sudden and unexpected plummet into marital bliss was a worry. Two good men down. A state Flint wanted no part of.

  Not this side of fifty at least. Perhaps when he was older and beginning to creak he might welcome the presence of a wife. And then again perhaps not. Merely considering it made him frown.

  It wasn’t so much the institution of marriage he took issue with, rather the inevitable tribulations which came along with it. As the youngest of six children, five of whom were female, he’d had quite enough feminine machinations, hysterics and interfering nosiness to last a lifetime. He’d been hen-pecked, mollycoddled and driven to the furthest limits of his sanity for his first twenty years. Those scars still ran deep. Too deep to plunge headlong into marriage any time soon. Women were born conditioned to find ways to control and confound the men they cohabited with. A fact he understood only too well.

  He loved all his high-strung sisters dearly, was hugely proud and protective of them in equal measure, but also spent a great deal of time wanting to strangle the lot of them. Despite all now happily settled with good husbands and families of their own, they still devoted a huge and wholly unnecessary amount of time meddling in his life.

  In the last two years that meddling had become considerably more unbearable than it had been in his youth—before he had discovered the sweet taste of freedom—because now they had collectively decided their little brother was in dire need of settling, too. In their minds, seven and twenty was precisely the right age for a man to marry. He couldn’t return home without an attractive and eligible female being unsubtly wafted under his nose.

  Last month, when another mission necessitated a protracted visit to his estate, his troublesome sisters had conspired to procure three potential brides who just happened to be invited to every dinner he was home to eat. And he had been purposely non-committal about his possible attendance at all meals—yet those eligible girls were there regardless. One of whom was so enthusiastic Flint had had to keep his wits about him for a whole week to avoid being caught in a compromising situation. That chit had been hellbent on being ruined and his sisters, and his own beloved mother, had encouraged her ardent pursuit! It was a sad state of affairs when a man’s house wasn’t a safe haven.

  Thank goodness the wandering and unpredictable life of a spy had given him a convenient excuse to avoid his siblings for months out of every year. They lived in Cornwall, miles away from anywhere, and he cheerfully resided in London in bachelor lodgings, blissfully female-free. A situation which suited him perfectly. As he knew to his cost, all women—family or otherwise—really couldn’t be trusted.

  A hard chunk of well-baked crust caught him on the temple. ‘Do not dare try to ignore me, English pig! Let me out of here! You do not know what you have got into. They will come and they will kill you. Every one of you!’ He dodged the next doughy projectile and rolled his eyes. All this combustible feminine emotion was tiresome. She saw it and became most fervent, her small hands curling around the bars and her dark eyes wide beneath the tangle of curls.

  ‘Do you seriously think they will let me set one foot on English soil and not be there waiting?’

  Something he and his superiors were counting on and the real reason why she had been held tantalisingly on this huge ship, conveniently anchored within plain sight of the beach at Cherbourg for almost six days.

  Lady Jessamine was bait.

  A tasty morsel to lure her fellow traitors out of the woodwork. ‘You are overreacting, madam. Before you know it, you will be stood firmly back on English soil, in the dock and found reassuringly guilty and we’ll all be much happier for it.’

  Her hand went straight to her neck as she stumbled back a step and he felt a pang of guilt at being so brutal before he ruthlessly quashed it. So what if she was a woman? She didn’t deserve his compassion and any residual, instinctually protective ideals about the fairer sex did not apply here. She was a traitor. A criminal.

  She might not have wielded the pistols that had killed, but she’d had a hand in loading the bullets and reaped a share in the ill-gotten profits. Shamelessly co-ordinating the smugglers for the elusive Boss, a man the King’s Elite had been desperate to arrest for over a year. The callous and invisible criminal mastermind behind a plot to restore Napoleon to power. His network had infiltrated the upper echelons of the English elite and flooded the market with smuggled brandy, the proceeds from which went straight into the enemy’s coffers.

  Alongside the Comte de Saint-Aubin-de-Scellon, the petite Lady Jessamine was his partner in crime. The Boss’s assistant across the Channel. Every covert, coded message they had intercepted in the last few weeks had been written in her pretty, looped handwriting. Times, places, shipments, vessels, corrupt English peers complicit in the widespread and dangerous treachery—Lady Jessamine was privy to it all. In fact, she had assisted in orchestrating it. Always had. There were three other convicted traitors languishing in Newgate awaiting execution who had repeatedly testified to as much.

  A midshipman arrived with a lamp and the damp brig was suddenly bathed in golden light. Another pang of pity troubled him as she flinched in pain and shielded her eyes. She’d been kept in the dark too long. Her skin had the grey pallor similar to that seen on long-term prisoners.

  Now he could clearly see her body, the evidence of her rough treatment appalled him. One sleeve hung limply at her elbow, ripped nearly clean from the bodice. Finger-shaped bruises marred her upper arm. Her dark hair was matted. Her small feet bare. The remnants of her gown stained and filthy. The coarse, utilitarian fabric surprised him. Flint had expected silk and lace—the obvious trappings of wealth and ill-gotten privilege—not dull, patched serge.

  A disguise? It had to be. Once her hideaway had come under siege, it made sense she would don the garments of a servant and attempt to flee capture. But still...

  ‘Se
nd for soap and hot water, Captain. Some fresh clothes and a hairbrush.’ Whatever she had done, Lady Jessamine was still a human being. ‘And arrange a screen out here so she can bathe in private. The guards can wait outside.’ She was also the sole woman on a ship filled with lusty men who spent the majority of their lives on the ocean with other males.

  ‘If we can’t see her, there is no telling what she might do! The blasted chit has tried to escape three times already!’

  ‘The anchor has been weighed and we are miles from shore. Unless she swims underwater with the speed of a dolphin, where exactly do you think she will go?’ Flint turned at the same moment she brushed the dark curtain of hair from her face.

  Beautiful.

  That was the only thought he had and one that certainly wouldn’t do. He’d been bewitched by traitorous beauty before and had trained himself to be immune since. As her deep brown, almond-shaped eyes locked with his, he abruptly turned on his heel, a little staggered at the odd emotions the sight of her conjured. He had thought he hadn’t needed Lord Fennimore’s stinging reminder about his previous gullibility—now he clung to those insightful words gratefully.

  ‘Don’t let her wiles waylay you. Remember what happened the last time.’

  As if he could forget? His father had almost died as a result. But that had been years ago when he had still been green around the gills and had assumed that all women were like his sisters—over-emotional but good inside. That particular prisoner had duped him with her tears, capitalised on his familial obligation to protect and then thoroughly seduced him into dropping his guard. To then watch helpless as she had shot his poor father with Flint’s own pistol had been a hard way to learn his lesson—but learn it he had. What she looked like and how his body responded had nothing to do what his mission. The mission always had to come first. ‘Get yourself cleaned up. We will talk again in an hour.’

  * * *

  Jess watched him leave. Watched the Captain and her two surly guards follow closely behind, then sank to the floor. The last few weeks had been terrifying and exhausting, but tears had no place now. Self-pity was an indulgence she couldn’t afford—not yet at least. Perhaps soon she could curl up in a ball in a safe little room far, far away and cry for a month to let it all out. Until then, she needed to hold the tears back, knowing instinctively that if she started then she wouldn’t be able to stop.