Once a Spy

by Putney, Mary Jo

  “Like you, I would be discreet and do nothing to bring shame on your name.” She laughed suddenly, her face alive with amusement. “This is a very French conversation!”

  He laughed with her. “So it is. Perhaps we would be very sophisticated and both quietly keep lovers on the side. But this is mere speculation. All we can know is this moment, how we feel now. And what I feel is that I would be profoundly grateful if you agreed to share my life.”

  “But why?” she asked a little helplessly.

  If there was to be any chance she would accept his proposal, he must be honest and vulnerable. “I have felt lonely for many years, Suzanne,” he said quietly. “When I walked into this room, my first emotion was great happiness to see that you are alive. And in the next moment, I realized I didn’t feel lonely anymore.”

  Her gaze was searching. “I also feel less alone, but what if we don’t suit?”

  “We courteously go our separate ways within the marriage and treat each other with respect and kindness. That shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s great passion that creates anger. If we are both beyond passion, surely we can be friends.”

  “The idea sounds simple, but human beings are seldom simple,” she said skeptically.

  Just talking to Suzanne made him feel more alive even when they disagreed. “You’re right, of course. But let us not overlook the shockingly practical side of my proposal,” Simon said. “As my wife you could live quite comfortably. Not with the luxury of a countess, but you will not have to work long hours in order to eat.”

  “I can’t deny that has appeal,” Suzanne said. “But marriage is a great leap of faith at the best of times, and I scarcely know you. The same difficult years that are something of a bond between us might also have produced deep scars that could prove hard to live with.”

  “Those are all good points, but we need not decide today. Let us spend some time together. Become reacquainted.”

  “That is essential! At the moment, sir, you are a pig in a poke.”

  He laughed outright. “I have been called many unflattering things, but never that.” He gestured at the lightening sky outside. “The sun is attempting to shine. After calling here, I planned to visit my London house. I’ve been staying in a hotel since returning to the city, but it’s time to move into my own home.”

  She glanced out the window at the brightening day. “I should finish my sewing commission while there is light.”

  After a moment’s thought, he said, “If you join me for this small excursion, I will supply candles so you can work into the night.”

  “You are courting me with candles?” she asked with interest.

  “If you find that appealing, they can be courtship candles. Or you can think of them as merely helpful.”

  She studied him thoughtfully, then nodded. “Candles will indeed be helpful, and I should like some fresh air. Let me get my cloak.”

  He watched her depart, and wondered if he was mad to offer marriage. But he felt no inclination to withdraw his offer.

  * * *

  Suzanne felt a little reckless as Simon handed her into his curricle, then swung up beside her and took the reins from his groom. Reaching under the seat, he pulled out a dark blue carriage robe. “You might find this useful. There’s a hint of spring in the air, but warmth is still some distance off.”

  “But this is very pleasant after days of rain.” She adjusted the robe around her. It was woven from some marvelously soft wool and she enjoyed the touch of luxury. Even more she enjoyed his consideration.

  As Simon deftly turned the carriage in the narrow street and headed west, she studied his profile. Now that the initial shock of his resemblance to her late husband had passed, she was seeing the differences. Jean-Louis had had the air of a jaded sophisticate while Simon was contained and . . . enigmatic? She thought of still waters running deep. He surely had interesting tales to tell. As did she.

  She enjoyed studying the streets and buildings and energetic inhabitants they passed. “It’s pleasant to finally see something of London.”

  “You’re not familiar with the city?”

  She shook her head. “I’d never been here before I arrived from Constantinople.”

  “You were willing to risk your future in an unknown place?”

  She shrugged. “It’s easier to become a new woman here. By the time I sailed the length of the Mediterranean on an English ship, I was reasonably fluent in the language and I knew I could manage.”

  He nodded, understanding the desire to start a new life.

  “You’ve seen more of Europe’s great cities. Which is your favorite?” she asked. “Paris? So many people love Paris.”

  “But you are not one of them,” he said in what wasn’t a question. “All the great cities have their own souls, their beauties and blemishes. Paris, Rome, Vienna, Lisbon. I’m particularly fond of Lisbon, a lovely city of light and wide vistas. But my favorite is London because this is most my home.”

  “Did you live here when you were a child?”

  “Yes, my mother’s father gave her this Mayfair House when she married to make it easy for her to visit her family, so when we fled the Reign of Terror, the house was waiting to receive us. I’ve spent more time in England than in France.”

  The neighborhoods became grander until Simon drew up in front of a substantial town house in a square with a small green park in the center. Turning the curricle over to the young groom who’d ridden on the back of the vehicle, he helped Suzanne from the carriage and up the few steps to a dark green painted door. The door knocker was a polished brass lion that glinted confidently in the afternoon light.

  Simon hesitated for a long moment, visibly steeling himself as he produced a heavy key from his pocket. “The old knocker was an eagle that looked too much like Napoleon’s imperial eagle standard, which French troops carried into battle. I had it changed to a British lion.”

  “Symbols matter.” After a long silence, she asked quietly, “Are you reluctant to return because the house holds too many bad memories?”

  “Too many good ones. This is part of the golden past that is forever gone.” Face set, he unlocked the door and ushered her into the small vestibule.

  A gilt-framed mirror hung above a polished mahogany table opposite the door. Suzanne and Simon were reflected there and she felt a jolt of surprise, as if he was a stranger. When he’d first greeted her, for a stunned moment she’d thought he was her late husband. Then she remembered him as Simon, a charming young man she’d liked very much in the golden days before her marriage.

  But the image in the mirror reflected the man he was now. Austerely handsome. Quietly masterful. A man at ease in any situation, as dangerous as he needed to be—and carrying a bone-deep weariness that was eating away at his soul.

  She drew a shaky breath as she absorbed this fuller understanding of the man who wanted her for his wife. Oddly, in that mirror they seemed well matched: She looked attractive and had the cool elegance of the countess she’d once been even though she wore an altered, secondhand gown.

  But the strongest resemblance was that she shared his weariness. Was soul deep fatigue a foundation strong enough to support a marriage, or reason for her to run in the opposite direction?

  Her thoughts were interrupted when Simon opened a door on the right and revealed a drawing room. The draperies were drawn so the light was dim, but she could see the elegant lines of the furniture and appreciate the softness of the Turkish carpet beneath her feet.

  As she entered, she brushed her fingertips across the gleaming surface of a satinwood table. “It’s a handsome house. Has it been empty for years?”

  “No, a French couple who served my father’s family for many years live here.” Simon moved to a window and drew the draperies back, allowing the pale winter sunshine into the room. “When war erupted after the Peace of Amiens, I helped the Merciers out of France. They needed a new home and the house needed caretakers. A fortnight ago I sent a message that I’d be r
eturning soon, and asked that they take the Holland covers off the furniture and prepare the house for me to take up residence.”

  He crossed the room and pulled the bell rope by the fireplace. A distant ringing sounded on the floor below in the servants’ quarters. “I haven’t been here in years. It’s rather eerie to see how nothing has changed.”

  Well-proportioned tables, chairs, and sofas were clustered into conversational groupings, the upholstery only a little faded with time. Her gaze was drawn to the portrait that hung above the fireplace. A dark-haired woman with a warm smile sat in a chair in this very room, an older man standing behind her with his hand on her shoulder.

  “Your parents,” she said. “I met them briefly before my wedding, but I met so many of Jean-Louis’s relatives then that I did no more than exchange a few words.” There was a strong resemblance between Simon and his father, a resemblance shared by her husband. The Duval family blood ran strong.

  Simon joined her, his gaze on the portrait. “This was painted at a happy time. My father was French to the bone, but he was philosophical and made the best of his exile to England. The world would be changing, he said, so he made sure I was equally fluent in French and English. The plan was that I would attend school here and university in Paris if the wars were over by then, but that wasn’t possible.”

  “What school?” She searched her memory for the names of the most famous British schools and came up with only one. “Eton?”

  “Harrow. Like Eton, it’s close to London.” He smiled a little. “As an old Harrovian, I am honor bound to say that my school was superior to Eton, but in truth they are much the same.”

  Her brow furrowed as new memories surfaced. “Do you have a brother? I remember you talking warmly about a Lucas.”

  “He was my cousin, but yes, as close as a brother. Our mothers were sisters. He was orphaned young and came to live with my family.” He gestured to a smaller portrait that hung over a sofa. It showed two young boys, perhaps ten years old. One was clearly Simon, and the other a boy with fair coloring and mischief in his eyes. “We attended Harrow together and looked out for each other.”

  “Is he . . . gone?” she asked softly. “Another victim of the wars?”

  “Yes,” Simon said bleakly. “Lucas was in the Royal Navy. His ship was sunk with no known survivors, though I’ve never quite given up hope that he might be a prisoner of war somewhere in France.”

  She frowned. “Weren’t all prisoners released after the emperor abdicated?”

  “Yes. But hope is a difficult habit to give up.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a middle-aged couple who were clearly the French caretakers. The broad, capable-looking man bowed deeply. “Milord, how good to see you home and well!”

  Madame Mercier, round and sharp-eyed, bobbed a curtsy. “All is in readiness, milord. Will you be moving in today?” Her curious gaze slid to Suzanne.

  “Perhaps tomorrow,” Simon replied. “I’ve brought my cousin, the Comtesse de Chambron, to see the house. I’d thought her dead, so it was a great pleasure to find her alive and recently arrived in London.”

  Suzanne smiled at the Merciers and said in French, “The house is lovely and you’ve kept it well.”

  Looking pleased, Madame Mercier replied in the same language, “Thank you, Madame la Comtesse.” After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “Would monsieur and madam like to have a light luncheon here? There isn’t time to prepare a proper meal, but I can offer simple bistro fare, a beef bourguignon stew and good French bread.”

  The thought made Suzanne’s mouth water. She had too little money to eat well. “I should like that above all things! It’s been years since I’ve had decent French cooking.”

  The couple gave approving smiles. Mercier suggested, “Would monsieur and madam like a glass of wine while the meal is prepared?”

  Good French wine, Suzanne hoped, but she said, “I’d like to see the rest of the house, Simon, if that’s not too impolite of me.”

  “I’d like to show it to you. I’ll ring when we’re done, Mercier. We’ll eat in the breakfast room.”

  The Merciers inclined their heads and withdrew, probably to speculate on the meaning of Suzanne’s presence at their master’s side. She wished them luck with their speculations since she, herself, had no idea what the future held.

  Simon offered his arm. “Shall we explore, milady?”

  She took his arm with a smile. Even if she decided marriage would be unwise, at the least she’d get a good French meal out of this expedition.

  Chapter 3

  Wishing he could read Suzanne’s mind, Simon kept a close eye on her as he showed her through the public rooms, then led her upstairs to the next floor. Her gaze was calm and unreadable as she studied her surroundings. Though he’d always loved this house, it was modest compared to the palatial homes Suzanne had lived in. But it was certainly better than the boardinghouse where she lived now.

  Their first stop on the bedroom floor was his parents’ rooms at the back of the house. “This bedroom on the left was my mother’s.” He opened the door for Suzanne so she could enter. “My father’s room is the mirror image on the other side of the house and there’s a small sitting room between. My mother liked the quiet in the back of the house, and there’s a good view of the garden.”

  Suzanne moved to the window and gazed down. “Even in February, the garden looks pleasant. In summer it must be beautiful.”

  “My mother loved gardening, though this one has been neglected for years. The planting season is coming so I need to find a good gardener.”

  She turned from the window. “Where is your room? Or would you rather not visit that?”

  She was perceptive in picking up his uneasiness, which made him doubly glad to have her company on this painful return to his home. “My bedroom was at the front of the house next to Lucas’s room. The better for us to commit mischief together.”

  She smiled. “Then by all means I’d like to see it.”

  He escorted her the length of the house to his room, bracing himself as he opened the door. As Suzanne moved by him, she asked softly, “Too many good memories here?”

  Suppressing a sigh, he replied, “I didn’t know how happy my life had been until I lost all the people I cared about.”

  She nodded with sad understanding, then drifted around the canopy bed, her fingertips brushing the coverlet, her gaze scanning the overflowing bookcase. She paused by the open shelves that held his childhood collection of interesting rocks and crystals and small wooden carvings of animals. She lifted one to study it more closely. “A British lion, I see. Did you carve these? They’re very well done.”

  “Lucas made them.”

  She must have heard something in his voice because she carefully set the lion back in its place and moved to the window that looked out on the quiet street below and the iron-fenced park in the middle of the square. With her elegance and perfect proportions, even her back was lovely to observe.

  Beauty. It had been so long since he’d felt the beauty of the world. Women were one of God’s most beautiful creations, yet he had stopped recognizing that a long time ago. He tried to remember back to the time before desire had been burned out of him by war and violence. The young man he’d been then would have wanted to move behind Suzanne and wrap his arms around her waist and murmur sweet words in hopes of invoking a matching response in her.

  He could barely remember that young man, but he could at least recognize that Suzanne had the beauty of grace, experience, and wisdom. It was a deeper beauty than she’d had as a radiant young girl, and more interesting. The weary man he was now wasn’t interested in seduction, but he liked being with her.

  He crossed the room to stand beside her, careful not to touch. But he couldn’t prevent himself from asking, “Can you imagine yourself living in this house?”

  “This has been a happy house,” she said slowly. “I can feel that, and how it yearns to come alive again. An
d yet . . .” She turned to face him, her expression troubled. “I have spent almost all my life caged by men. As a child, as a very young wife, and as a harem slave. I enjoy the freedom I have now.”

  “But not the poverty, I assume.”

  “Definitely not the poverty,” she agreed. “Yet if I have a roof over my head and enough to eat, it’s preferable to some of my other living situations.”

  That adaptability was probably why she’d survived so much. “Though I’ve never been actually poor, in my army years, I sometimes lived like a beggar.” He smiled ruefully. “I most certainly did not enjoy the hunger, cold, and general miseries, but the experience has deepened my appreciation of life’s comforts.”

  “Do you miss the camaraderie of being in the army?” she asked. “Leading your men into battle, sharing triumph and loss as well as the miseries? Is the lack of that camaraderie why you yearn for companionship now?”

  “Most of the time I wasn’t a field officer,” he replied. “Because I know several languages and could draw maps, I became an exploring officer, doing reconnaissance behind enemy lines. For that kind of work, I wore my uniform for the most part so if I was captured, which I was a time or two, I’d be treated as a prisoner of war rather than a spy.”

  Noting his caveat, she asked, “Did you also act as a spy on occasion, wearing civilian clothing and risking a spy’s death?”

  He nodded. “When that seemed necessary, yes. Once in Portugal I was captured with several Englishmen. We were all condemned as spies and sentenced to be shot at dawn. One of the other men was your friend Hawkins. Working together, we all managed to escape.”

  “And I’m glad of it! If not for Hawkins, I’d still be a slave, or dead.” She shrugged. “More likely the latter. My owner, Gürkan, was growing tired of me. When that happened with one of his slaves, it never ended well.”

  He winced at her calm words. He had also learned that detachment was essential for survival. “Often I worked alone, and you’re probably right—that’s a strong reason why I yearn for companionship now. Traditionally, husbands and wives see a great deal of each other. I find the idea appealing.”