Once a Spy

by Putney, Mary Jo

  “That’s only true if they get along well,” she pointed out. “I fear giving up my freedom. What if we don’t like each other well enough to be companions?”

  “That could happen,” he admitted. “But I’m willing to chance it. Are you?”

  Her brow furrowed. “I risk more if this marriage of... of friendship fails.”

  She was right. He asked, “What would it take to make you more comfortable with the idea of a marriage of friendship?”

  She considered. “As we discussed earlier, we need to know each other better. We need to talk and spend time together.”

  “Those are very reasonable suggestions.” He smiled and offered his arm. “And we can begin by sharing a meal. Our luncheon should be ready by now.”

  Her eyes lit up as she took his arm. “Lead on, sir! Is your wine cellar as French as your food?”

  “I’ll be surprised if it isn’t.” As they headed downstairs, he felt cautiously hopeful that he and Suzanne might have a future together.

  * * *

  There was little conversation over the meal. Suzanne was grateful that Simon didn’t distract her while she was enjoying the best meal she’d had in years. The beef bourguignon was marvelously flavorful and so tender that the chunks of meat almost dissolved in her mouth. There hadn’t been time to make fresh bread, so a baguette had been split and spread with butter and garlic and finely chopped chives, then grilled till it was crisp and fragrant.

  It was simple peasant food—and sublime. She emptied her bowl twice and considered asking for a third serving, but regretfully concluded that she didn’t have room to eat any more.

  Simon smiled as he leaned forward to top off her glass with a red Burgundy wine perfectly suited to the food. “I like to see someone enjoy a good meal.”

  “It’s the best food I’ve had in many years. Meals in the harem were lavish and sometimes very fine, but they were not French.” She chuckled. “It would almost be worth marrying you for Madame Mercier’s cooking.”

  “She is definitely an asset to the house. I believe a lemon tart and coffee will appear eventually. Will that be enough to tip the balance?” he asked with mock hopefulness.

  “No, but I shall enjoy them.” She turned her glass, admiring the deep crimson of the wine as light reflected through it. “In our discussions, we must be honest with each other, no matter how appalling the truth is. Will you swear to that?”

  His gaze was steady. “I have spent too many years keeping secrets. I pledge always to be honest with you unless the truth belongs to someone else.”

  “That is fair.” She studied his face. “What did you think when we first met all those years ago? Surely you didn’t fall in love with me at first sight.”

  “No, I knew you were not for me, and even at that age, I saw no reason to pine for the impossible,” he replied. “But I thought you were enchanting and was honored to become your friend. I vaguely hoped that someday, when I was ready to marry, I’d find a girl like you.” After a silence, he added in a quiet voice, “When I heard you were dead, I lit candles for you.”

  She was touched by his words. “Strange how the world works,” she mused. “Here we are discussing the possibility of marriage, though I’m only a faded echo of the enchanting girl I was then. Look hard before you commit to a future with me, milord.”

  “You no longer have the dewy perfection of fifteen,” he agreed. “But you are so much more interesting now.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” Her mouth curved. It hardly seemed fair that men tended to improve with age. Simon had been an attractive young fellow, and he’d matured into a strong, handsome man who would draw glances from any normal female. She was no longer normal, but she did find him pleasing to face across a dining room table.

  He asked, “What did you think of me when we met? Not ‘enchanting,’ I’m sure!”

  “No, but charming. Intelligent, a good companion.” She tried to recall that first meeting. “I thought that Jean-Louis must have been like you when he was your age. Though in that, I was wrong.”

  “In what way? I didn’t know him well.”

  She hesitated, wondering how to describe her late husband without saying more than she felt like discussing. “I think you are more interested in your surroundings and the people around you than Jean-Louis was. He was very much a French aristocrat while you have become a man of the world.”

  His expression was curious, but he didn’t pursue the topic, for which she was grateful. Perhaps someday it would seem right to discuss her marriage, but not today.

  When Madame Mercier entered the room to serve the lemon tart and coffee, conversation languished. The tart was as good as the rest of the meal, a deliciously bittersweet taste on her tongue, and the strong, hot coffee was the perfect complement.

  After Simon had finished off his tart, he said, “Now that you are mellowed by good French food, I’ll ask what it would take to coax you into risking marriage. What if I settle a lump sum of money on you that will permit you to be comfortable and independent even if we separate?”

  “You want this so much?” she exclaimed, startled. “Surely there are other women who would be charming, accommodating wives!”

  He smiled a little. “I don’t know any such women, but I know you.”

  “A convenient female for a marriage of convenience? I suppose that makes sense.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” he said seriously. “I’ve always felt easy with you even when we were both very young and you were on the way to the altar with another. I feel easy with you now despite the strangeness of this conversation. Do you feel that way, or is it just me?”

  “I’ve felt much the same,” she said slowly. “As if we were natural friends. In the years since, we’ve both lived complicated lives. There is ease in not having to pretend to be normal.”

  He grimaced. “I often feel like that, that I’m pretending to be normal. But there are a good number of other former soldiers around, so I’m not that unusual. There are few if any European women who have escaped harems as you have.”

  “It’s a distinction I would prefer to have avoided,” she said dryly. She studied his face, wondering if she was mad to consider this proposal. “If I am to accept your offer of a settlement, we’ll have to trust each other. You must trust that I won’t take the money and run away, and I must trust that you won’t push me down the stairs to free you from an unsatisfactory marriage.”

  “I like your directness,” he said, amused. “I swear not to push you down any stairs, and I trust that you won’t take the money and leave without making a good faith effort to create a companionable marriage.”

  “If I accept your proposal, I swear I will try my best,” she said seriously.

  “One can ask no more.” He glanced out the window. “Night falls so early at this season. I need to return you to your home.”

  Suzanne nodded agreement, then asked, “Now that we’ve broken bread together, what next, milord?”

  “First I’ll take you home so you can finish your alterations. Tomorrow, shall we meet some of each other’s friends?”

  She liked that he respected her work even though alterations must seem trivial to him. But the rest of his comment was irrelevant. “I have no friends in London except for Mr. and Mrs. Potter and the other women in the boardinghouse.”

  Simon smiled. “Aren’t you friends with a certain Lady Aurora Lawrence, informally known as ‘Roaring Rory’?”

  “Rory is still in London?” Suzanne exclaimed. “I’d love to see her! Surely her captain is not far from his bride.”

  “Glued to her side by all appearances, with a wide, happy smile on his face,” Simon said with affectionate amusement. “Tomorrow evening, several veterans of the Portuguese cellar and their wives will be dining at the home of Lord and Lady Kirkland, so you can meet Rory and some other amiable ladies.”

  Suzanne glanced down at her gown, appalled. Correctly interpreting her expression, Simon said, “You have the Fr
enchwoman’s gift of elegance, Suzanne. You will look very well, and from what I hear, the other ladies who will be present are not the sort who claw other females for sport.”

  The idea was still rather intimidating, but it would be wonderful to see the exuberant Rory and perhaps her quiet, lovely cousin Constance. Suzanne was also curious to meet the friends Simon had made when under sentence of death. “I shall be pleased to accompany you. Who are the Kirklands? Was he in that cellar?”

  “No, but he has been a friend to all of us. Kirkland has extensive shipping interests and many useful connections. When Lady Aurora’s mother was desperate to find a reliable agent to negotiate her daughter’s freedom in Algiers, Kirkland produced Hawkins for her. He’s very good at such things.”

  Suzanne smiled. “Surely the captain exceeded his orders by not only rescuing the lady but marrying her.”

  “Perhaps, but there are no complaints from any direction. I think the lady’s parents are relieved to see her safely married off.”

  “Safe” wasn’t the word Suzanne would have used to describe Lady Aurora, but she and Hawkins clearly suited each other well. Rising from her chair, she said, “It will be an interesting evening.”

  With impeccable timing, Madame Mercier entered the breakfast room and offered a basket to Suzanne. “Your candles, milady.”

  Suzanne looked into the basket and saw a wrapped bundle of what she suspected were the best beeswax candles, alongside a wrapped parcel of bread and a small crock that smelled deliciously of beef bourguignon. “Thank you, madam! You are very generous.”

  Madame Mercier murmured in French that it was her pleasure, but her conspiratorial glance at Simon said that she was hopeful this long neglected house would soon have a new mistress. The idea was beginning to seem . . . possible.

  Chapter 4

  In a tribute to her skill with alterations, the shimmering green gown Suzanne wore for dinner with Simon’s friends produced a bow of admiration when he collected her at her boardinghouse. “You look splendid, milady. The green of your gown makes your eyes seem impossibly emerald.”

  She made a face as she took his arm, and they left the house together. The evening was damp and bitingly cold, but the battered cloak she’d found at a rag shop was mercifully warm. When she had time, she’d refurbish the cloak with braid and brass buttons, but for now, she preferred comfort to style. “Those emerald eyes probably saved my life. My master, Gürkan, liked exotic looks in his harem slaves. He’d not seen eyes like mine before and they intrigued him enough to spare my life.”

  Simon flinched as he helped her into the carriage. “It is hard for me to imagine the uncertainty and danger of harem life.”

  “I was told that many harems were pleasant places that gave beautiful young girls the chance for a better life.” She settled on her seat and pulled her cloak tight against the chill. “But Gürkan was mad. Evil. He had fits that put him into a killing rage. No one ever left his harem for a better life, until the night of our escape.”

  Simon took the reins and set the carriage in motion. “You speak of these things so calmly. Was that how you kept your sanity?”

  She shrugged. “Collapsing in a weeping heap would do me no good. Detachment and acceptance of the fact that I might be killed at any time were necessary.”

  “You would have made a magnificent soldier,” he said pensively.

  “I expect I would have enjoyed that a good deal more than being a harem slave.” She studied his silhouette as they passed through a splash of light from a house. She liked his firm, handsome profile. “But women have few choices.”

  “Which is why you are reluctant to put yourself into a man’s control again,” he said as he turned the carriage into a wider street. “I do understand, though I hope to change your mind.”

  He was making some progress, but she preferred not to tell him that. “Enough about the past. Tell me about that mad night in Portugal, the men you shared it with, and whom we will dine with tonight.”

  “That mad night was in 1809, when the French were invading northern Portugal,” he said. “They had reached Porto, so the retreating Portuguese army destroyed the bridge over the Douro River that separated Porto from Gaia on the opposite side. They wanted to slow the French advance, but in the process they also destroyed the escape route for Portuguese civilians fleeing the French army.”

  She frowned as she thought back. “There was a disaster, wasn’t there?”

  He nodded in the darkness. “A bridge was improvised by lashing small boats together so they reached from shore to shore. Desperate people were surging across even though it was unsteady and dangerous. Then the bridge broke and the refugees were pitched into the water screaming.” He drew a rough breath. “The current was swift. I was one of many who tried to rescue the victims from the water. It was chaos.”

  She shivered at the image of a river full of desperate, screaming people. “I once fell into a stream and was dragged down by my saturated skirts. I would have drowned if a servant hadn’t pulled me out.”

  “Many of the refugees were women and children,” Simon said grimly. “The five of us who were captured and sentenced to death were rescuing a group of nuns and schoolgirls. Some English was spoken, and that alerted a French colonel who arrested us, declared we were all English spies, and locked us in the damp cellar of a house where he’d set up his headquarters. The other four men were British. I became very French but the colonel decided I was a royalist spy and I was locked up with the others.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “I was observing the invasion, as a reconnaissance officer does, but I wasn’t wearing my uniform, so I was fair game.”

  “What a difference a uniform makes! Why were the other Britons in such a dangerous place?”

  “None of us discussed that, though I later found that our group included another British army officer.” His voice turned wry. “We were a proper scruffy set of rogues. As we waited for dawn and the firing squad, we drank bad brandy provided by a couple of the French guards who thought we shouldn’t go to our deaths sober.”

  “How very French!” Suzanne exclaimed. “Though a pity the brandy wasn’t better. What does one speak of on such a night?”

  “A major topic was what we’d do to redeem our wicked lives if we escaped.”

  She laughed a little. “One may have very saintly aspirations when death is inevitable. Were you really such rogues?”

  “I can’t swear to the sins of any of the others, but what man doesn’t have regrets?”

  “What man or woman?” she said softly.

  “Very true.” After a long silence, he said, “I’ll be curious to learn what the other Rogues Redeemed have done with their survival.”

  “Who will be there tonight?”

  “Hawkins and his lady, of course. Masterson, who was the other army officer. A fellow who called himself Gordon and who could be called a soldier of fortune. Kirkland said they were bringing wives, so perhaps they’re settling down to quieter lives.”

  “You would be the fourth man in the cellar. Who was the fifth? Has he survived the wars?”

  “I don’t know. He called himself Chantry, but there was an assumption we weren’t necessarily using our real names. We arranged to send letters to Hatchards bookstore to update each other on our situations, but I haven’t yet had time to call at the store and check for messages.”

  “It sounds as if a deep connection formed among you in mere hours,” Suzanne said thoughtfully. “This reunion will be interesting.”

  “We have nothing in common other than that one night of shared danger. We worked together to escape and the bond is real, but it won’t necessarily make us friends.” Amusement sounded in his voice. “As you say, it should be interesting.”

  “Have you seen any of the men other than Hawkins?”

  “I met Masterson in Spain after the emperor’s abdication. I sent him on a mission that very nearly got him killed.” Simon’s amusement deepened. “He wro
te me a thank-you note later.”

  Suzanne blinked. “Why?”

  “Apparently he thought the benefits outweighed the dangers.” Simon turned the carriage into an area of parkland and grand houses. “This is Berkeley Square. Kirkland House is directly across from Gunter’s confectionery shop, which is famous for its ices. I’d like to take you there when the weather is warmer.”

  She tugged her shabby cloak closer. “That won’t be anytime soon.”

  “Spring will come eventually. The weather is no worse than Paris.”

  “And no better!” But she would take rain and cold over the scorching sunshine of Constantinople any day.

  * * *

  Suzanne schooled her expression to polite amiability as they entered Kirkland House. With Hawkins and Rory attending, at least not everyone would be a stranger.

  The butler accepted her worn cloak with no visible sneer. “The guests are gathering in the drawing room,” he said as he ushered the new arrivals into a spacious room on the left.

  Their hosts approached to welcome them. Lord Kirkland was dark and handsome and fashionably detached, though his greeting was friendly. His lovely blond wife was warmer, with a smile that made Suzanne feel immediately at ease.

  Lady Kirkland was performing introductions to the guests who had already arrived when a newcomer cried out, “Suzanne!”

  Suzanne turned and was engulfed in a swift, rose-scented hug. “I’m so glad to see you!” Lady Aurora Lawrence exclaimed. As golden and vivacious as always, Rory stepped back, radiant with pleasure. “When the Zephyr arrived in London, I was so excited about seeing my family that I didn’t say a proper farewell to you, and later I realized I didn’t even have an address.”

  “We owe this reunion to our gentlemen of the Portuguese cellar,” Suzanne said, delighted by Rory’s exuberance. “Are your cousin and her husband still in England?”

  “No, Constance and Jason sailed for Maryland almost immediately to avoid the worst of the winter storms. Just yesterday I received a letter, though. Constance loves America, and Jason’s family loves her. She sounds thoroughly happy.”