* * *
Two days before their planned departure, she was doing her final packing when Simon entered the bedroom with a bouquet of fragrant spring flowers, which he presented with a flourish. “For the loveliest of ladies, ma belle!”
“How nice of you!” She buried her nose in the blossoms, enjoying the scents—and realized that something different was buried inside. Curiously she separated the flowers and found a neat little dagger in a leather sheath. She blinked and pulled it out. “You are so romantic, mon chéri!” She clasped the weapon over her heart and gave a soulful sigh. “Flowers fade but a dagger endures.”
He grinned. “I thought that if I was going to bring more potential mayhem, I should include flowers. The sheath can be strapped to your ankle or thigh, or perhaps concealed under your stays. Try it different ways to learn where it is both comfortable and accessible.”
“Will you give me a demonstration of how to carry and use it?” she asked. “I’m sure there are useful techniques.”
“I like to hold a knife with the blade pointing up for an underhand stroke.” He demonstrated with the knife in the sheath so there would be no accidental injuries. “It’s easier to block an overhand stroke than one coming up from below.”
She took the sheathed weapon and tried striking both ways. “I see what you mean.” She slid the dagger from its sheath and examined it more closely. “It’s a lovely little knife that fits my hand well.”
“As with the pistols, it’s good to have weapons that are comfortable and easy to use. When danger strikes, the faster you can respond, the better. If you have to think about what to do, it may be too late.”
They did a little mock scuffling with the sheathed knife so that she had a better sense of how to use it. “You’re quick,” he said approvingly as he dodged back from a strike that could have sliced into his abdomen and done serious damage if the knife wasn’t in its sheath.
“I’ll practice more strikes to get a better feel for it,” she promised. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and drew her skirts up provocatively. “Shall we try to decide the best location for wearing the dagger?”
His eyes darkened as he caught one ankle, then bent to kiss her inner thigh. “This will take time to determine,” he said huskily.
“We have time,” she murmured as she pulled him onto the bed with her. They ended up laughing together as hands slipped below clothing with mischievous intent.
They had learned well what pleased each other and it wasn’t long until laughter became moans and muffled cries. Suzanne convulsed under his touch before yielding to boneless relaxation and deep internal throbbing.
As she struggled for breath, she wondered when she would be able to open herself to him entirely. The mere thought made her tense until she forced herself to relax. They had come so far already. Surely someday she would be capable of full marital intimacy.
But for now, all her attention should be on driving her husband to madness. And she knew exactly how to do it....
* * *
The day before their departure, Simon found Suzanne attaching a ribbon to an otherwise very plain bonnet and asked, “Will you join me for a serious discussion with Philippe? He’s less suspicious of you than of me.”
She set the bonnet aside and rose. “He’s much less so than he was.”
He offered his arm. “True, but the topic of the discussion will raise his hackles.”
Together they climbed up to his bedroom. Simon tapped on the door and Marie called, “Come in.”
She and her husband were side by side on the small sofa, sharing morning coffee. He was well enough to walk a few steps, though still weak. Simon thought how much better he looked than when they’d found him at the ruined château.
Philippe’s brows arched as he regarded his visitors. “Have you come to throw us out of the house now that we’re better?”
“Nonsense!” Suzanne said briskly. “We’re here to discuss a matter of business.”
Marie rose. “I’ll leave so you’ll have your privacy.”
“No need,” Simon said. “Stay, this affects you also.”
Philippe frowned. “Now I am getting worried.” Marie took his hand nervously.
“It’s nothing dire. I’ve found the name and address of your father’s notaire, Monsieur Morel. He’s still practicing in Saint-Denis, so Suzanne and I decided to visit him in person to discover the state of the Chambron legal affairs. My guess is that even if he has a copy of the will, there won’t be any money, but it won’t hurt to ask.”
“I also want to find out if there is anything left of my dowry,” Suzanne added. “I’m not optimistic, but I’d like to know.”
“Would you be willing to give me a power of attorney so I can act on your behalf?” Simon asked. “You could specify how you would like any monies to be handled, if there are any.”
Philippe frowned, but Marie said mildly, “Don’t be so suspicious, mon chéri. If we hadn’t trusted Simon and Suzanne, we’d be dead by now. I for one will be glad to know where we stand.”
At her words, Philippe said reluctantly, “Very well, I’ll give you a power of attorney, but do you think it’s safe to travel into France with conditions so uncertain?”
Suzanne smiled. “Simon and I have had this discussion. There is no reason to worry overmuch. If an army starts marching toward us, we’ll simply move out of the way. Quickly!”
They all laughed together, and Philippe called for pen, paper, and a lap desk so he could write the power of attorney. When he was finished, he handed it to Simon but said to Suzanne, “I would like a word with you in private, Suzanne. Marie, would you mind leaving with Simon?”
His wife looked surprised, but she obediently led the way out of the room with Simon behind her. After the door closed, Philippe turned an intense gaze on Suzanne. “Will you tell me how my father died?”
She took the chair opposite him, sensing his craving to know more of his father. “I think that you know we were sailing to Naples. Jean-Louis knew a number of the people at the Court of Naples, and he also thought it wise to be out of France.”
Suzanne hadn’t been sure she’d like Naples, but she’d obediently gone along with her husband’s plans. She was always obedient in those days.
“A storm pushed us farther south than usual, and I’m told the corsair ship was farther north than such vessels usually venture. The corsairs attacked at dawn and caught our crew unaware. All was chaos and confusion.” She drew a deep breath as she remembered the shots and screams and flames. The bodies . . . “The pirates swarmed over the main deck, cutting down all who opposed them.”
“Battle is always chaos,” Philippe said grimly. “What happened to my father?”
She considered how much to say. There was no reason to tell him that the father he idolized was a craven coward. “Jean-Louis was not the man to grovel before pirates.” She looked down, not wanting Philippe to read anything in her eyes. “It was . . . very quick. I don’t think he knew what hit him. He and the others who would not submit were buried at sea. Everyone else, including me, was taken prisoner and enslaved.”
“I’m glad to know he went down fighting, as a Duval should.” Philippe swallowed hard, then bluntly asked an even more difficult question. “Do you think I am a bastard? I was always told that my parents fell passionately in love and married very soon after, but now that I am grown, I wonder if my father really would have wed a woman of much lower station, no matter how beautiful or how much he loved her.”
“I’m sorry, Philippe,” she said gently. “I simply do not know. I was in the nursery when your parents met.” She hesitated, picking her words carefully. “The man in his thirties whom I married was unlikely to have wed a girl of modest birth, but as an enraptured youth, he might have done so.”
“If I was legitimate, wouldn’t he have taken me to be raised in his own home?” Philippe’s words were a plaintive cry.
“Not necessarily. Since your mother was of modest birth, he might
not have wanted you exposed to the sneers of the aristocratic circles he preferred. Or perhaps you are illegitimate, but you were his only son and he cared for you. We may learn something from the notaire that will be illuminating. Simon and I will always be honest with you, you know.” Honest, and kind when possible.
“I almost wish you weren’t,” he said, looking very tired again. “But thank you for answering my questions. Have a safe journey.” He closed his eyes, exhausted once more.
She rose and left the room quietly. It would be a great disappointment if Monsieur Morel was able to tell them nothing useful.
* * *
The next morning, Simon and Suzanne set off for Paris, the passionate and perilous heart of France.
Chapter 29
The trip through northern France to Saint-Denis was blessedly free of incident. They took the main Brussels-to-Paris road, which was busy with more soldiers than one would see in peaceful times. Suzanne was glad that no one paid any particular attention to them.
Apart from the journey to Château Chambron, Suzanne had done no traveling in Europe since she was captured and enslaved. She wasn’t surprised to learn that Simon was a practiced traveler who knew how to manage everything from deeply rutted roads to changing horses to ferry crossings.
She recognized that even though he was driving their small carriage, he was also keenly observant of everything around them, including the military units. Wellington had chosen his spy well.
Saint-Denis was about a hundred fifty miles from Brussels, and traveling at a relaxed pace, they reached their destination in the middle of the fourth day. As they entered the compact town on the northern edge of Paris, Simon said, “This road we’re traveling on is actually where Morel’s office is. Shall we stop by and set up an appointment with Monsieur Morel?”
“We might as well. If we’re lucky, he might even be available to talk to us,” she replied. “I must admit that I’m impatient to hear what, if anything, he has to say.”
“I’m curious, too.” Simon smiled at her. “It’s time to turn on your aristocratic charm and beauty again.”
“And you must return yourself to being a wellborn senior officer.” To her amusement, he did just that, becoming more formidable under her gaze.
She must have successfully done the same, because when they left the carriage and horses at a livery across the street, Simon said, “Come, ma belle. You will have every man in the office, including the notaire himself, rushing out to gaze at you.”
She laughed. “I don’t think he’s the susceptible sort. I’ll settle for his being polite and available.”
The notaire was housed in a substantial building with marble steps leading up to the entrance. The heavy brass knocker also spoke of discreet success.
When a clerk admitted them, Simon said in a voice that assumed he would be obeyed, “We are Monsieur and Madame Duval and we wish to see Monsieur Morel on matters pertaining to Jean-Louis Duval, the Comte de Chambron.”
The clerk’s eyes widened. “Come in, monsieur and madam. I’ll see if the notaire is available.”
He led them to a comfortable reception room, then disappeared down the corridor beyond. He returned in only a few minutes. “He is pleased to meet with you. If you will come this way?”
They were escorted deeper into the house to a handsomely furnished office dominated by a massive desk of shining mahogany. The man behind the desk was in late middle age, and as handsome and well-furnished as his office. He rose as they entered. “Good day, Monsieur and Madame Duval. I have not heard the name of Jean-Louis Duval for a long time.”
His gaze moved to Suzanne, and he sucked in his breath with audible shock. “Madame la Comtesse, is that really you? I thought you were dead!” His eyes narrowed as he studied Simon. “You are not Jean-Louis.”
“No, I am not.” Simon took a seat alongside Suzanne as the notaire gestured for them to sit.
Morel signaled to his clerk, who was hovering by the door. “Refreshments, please. My guests have been traveling and must be hungry. Close the door behind you.”
He settled behind his desk again, clasping his hands before him on the embossed leather surface. “Madame la Comtesse, I do not doubt your identity, but I must verify that. Do you recall when we first met?”
She nodded. “Jean-Louis brought me from the house in Paris, saying there were certain legalities that must be performed. He didn’t bother to explain, of course. You were courteous to me but dismissive. I had the feeling you barely noticed my existence.”
“I actually noticed you with great pleasure, but I’ve learned it isn’t wise to pay too much attention to the beautiful young wife of an older husband, no matter how innocent one’s admiration is,” he explained wryly. “Then what happened?”
“I signed the documents like a proper and obedient young wife,” she said, trying to recall what it had been like to be so young. “Then you and Jean-Louis had important men’s business to discuss, so I was sent off to the library. The books were all legal tomes so there was nothing very interesting to read.”
She stopped, struck by a more pleasant memory. “But as you did today, you ordered refreshments for me. There was a lovely tea that smelled of . . . of jasmine, I think. And exquisite pastries. There was one of choux pastry with raspberry preserves and cream flavored with a liqueur. One of the loveliest things I’ve ever eaten. Do you have the same chef?”
The notaire chuckled. “Indeed I do. Thank you, madam. I do not doubt your identity.” He turned to Simon. “The Duvals breed true and you certainly have the look of the family. Where do you fit in?”
“I was a second cousin of Jean-Louis.” Simon reached inside his coat and drew out a folded paper. “Suzanne and I drew up a family tree that shows what we know. We thought you might have additional information.”
The notaire unfolded the large sheet of paper, scanning it quickly and nodding. “Ah, there you are, Monsieur Duval. Your father, also Simon Duval, married the English lady and moved to England just before the Peace of Amiens ended. I know nothing more of your branch of the family, and I cannot verify your identity because you never visited my office and ate pastries.”
“I can verify it,” Suzanne said. “Simon and I first met when he and his parents attended my wedding to Jean-Louis. There was a grand fortnight-long house party for family members. Simon was one of the few guests who was close to my age and we became friends. After the wedding, we went in very different directions, then met again in London several months ago. There is no question but that he is the Simon Duval I knew.” She raised her left hand, where her gold wedding ring caught the light. “Finding each other led to the result you see.”
The notaire accepted that. “Since you have remarried, I presume you know for a fact that Jean-Louis is dead?”
Her mouth twisted. “He died before my eyes. There is no doubt about it.” In terse words, she described what had happened.
The notaire listened quietly, then said, “Thank you. I’m sorry to have put you through that, but now I have confirmation for my records.”
There was a quiet knock at the door; then two servants arrived with trays of food and drink. Monsieur Morel had obviously decided his visitors were important because the trays contained savory bites like small sandwiches and hot cheese puffs as well as sweets including—oh, joy!—the choux pastry with cream, raspberries, and orange flavored liqueur. Plus coffee, jasmine-scented tea, and wines.
As Suzanne and Simon took advantage of the refreshments, Morel returned to his study of the family tree, jotting notes in several places. He reached the bottom of the page and became very still. “You have included Philippe Duval. You know of him?”
“He and his wife are currently living in our house in Brussels,” Suzanne said. “Obviously you’ve also heard of him. Do you have a copy of Jean-Louis’s will? If so, does he mention Philippe in it?”
The notaire took off his spectacles and polished them carefully. “This is a delicate matter, Madame le Comtesse. H
ow long have you known of Philippe’s existence?”
“Less than a fortnight,” she replied. “Simon and I visited Château Chambron to see what condition the estate was in. We found that the château had been burned down and Philippe and his wife were living in the ruins and in dire straits.”
“It doesn’t upset you that your husband had a natural son whose existence he concealed from you?” Morel asked curiously.
Suzanne shrugged. “Not really. Jean-Louis never spoke to me of important matters. He allowed Philippe to believe that he is legitimate. Philippe wants to believe, but he’s doubtful.”
“And justly so. Jean-Louis never suggested to me that his son was the product of a legal marriage.” The notaire hummed thoughtfully. “Your late husband left his affairs in a confused state, I fear.”
“An understatement,” Simon said dryly as he removed Philippe’s power of attorney from his inside pocket. He handed it to the notaire. “We are all interested in whatever clarity you can offer about Jean-Louis’s estate.”
Morel studied the power of attorney carefully, including the witness signatures. “This appears to be in order.” He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “You are both among those with a right to know about the will and its dispositions. It is an unusual document. I can produce it for you to study here in the office, but if you like, I’ll summarize the points that affect you.”
“The summary, please,” Suzanne said firmly.
The notaire looked at Simon. “You are the heir to the title of Comte de Chambron. I can say with reasonable certainty that the heirs between Jean-Louis and you are all deceased. Congratulations, Monsieur le Comte.”
Simon was still for a long moment. “I regret that so many of my kin have died.”
“Inheritance usually comes from a bittersweet hand,” the notaire said. “If it makes you feel any better, no property or monies are attached. Properly speaking, you would also inherit some ceremonial regalia that goes with the title, but I have no knowledge of where it might be.”
Once a Spy Page 21