Napoleon's Woman

by Samantha Saxon

  At that, the elegant earl turned and smiled, saying, "Then may God have mercy on your soul." And with a bow he turned and strolled away, leaving Celeste decidedly cold.

  ***

  Aidan was furious when he reached the carriage and pulled himself to the seat beside the coachman. He needed time to think---a task he seemed entirely incapable of within a furlong of the alluring Lady Rivenhall.

  "I shall be riding with you for the remainder of our journey," Aidan said, running his hands through his disheveled mane.

  The coachman’s leathery skin pulled together in deep creases of concern. "Very well, me lord."

  The man glanced down to verify that the ladies had returned to their seats before resuming their journey with a flick of his wrists.

  The summer sun should have warmed Aidan, but it did not. He crossed his arms over his chest and focused on the road ahead of him.

  He did not understand her.

  He had seen her command troops with ruthless autocracy, and yet, was on the verge of tears at the distant loss of her companion’s family. She was Napoleon’s mistress, and a virgin. She pushed him away and then clung to him for comfort.

  And God, how he wanted to comfort her, to make love to her under the shade of that oak tree. Her kiss extracted his very soul, and it was that overwhelming demand that had caused him to leap to his feet, forcing himself to remember who she was…a French agent working on behalf of her emperor.

  He would have to speak with Glenbroke upon his return, would have to insist that the duke find another man to follow the enticing Lady Rivenhall. For every time Aidan saw her he remembered being in her bed, holding her in his arms as he pressed into her.

  British lives should not be reliant upon his weakening will. He tried to recall the faces of the men he had lost at Albuera, but when he looked into her jade eyes their agonizing screams faded to a whisper.

  "Do you have any spirits on hand?" he asked the coachman. The man looked sheepish, causing Aidan to groan. "Good God, man, I’m desperate for a drink, not looking to have you dismissed."

  "I’ve some gin in me basket, if that’ll--"

  "Perfect, thank you." Aidan reached down and pulled the flagon from the basket under their feet. He took a long draw of the tangy liquid and then offered the driver a sip.

  "Women?"

  Aidan jerked his head toward the carriage, saying, "Woman."

  "Not Lady Rivenhall?" The man sounded astounded by the possibility. "For if ‘tis she that grieves ya, then you must be in the wrong. That girl is the sweetest thing that ever did walk this earth."

  Even her servants were devoted to the deceptive lady. "Well, if Lady Rivenhall is the finest we have on earth, then I shall be forced to look to the stars for companionship."

  ***

  As they approached London, the congestion in the streets caused them to slow to a crawl. It took a good hour to reach Mayfair and Lady Rivenhall’s lodgings. Aidan jumped down from the carriage and wished that he had not imbibed quite so large a quantity of the coachman’s gin.

  He handed down Madame Arnott, who promptly made for the safety of the front door. However, when he offered his arm to the younger woman, he held the stunning traitor’s hand firmly in his, saying, "I will see you again, Lady Rivenhall."

  "I think not, my lord."

  Aidan released her hand and watched as the woman made her way inside. He stared at the door and listened as the landau clattered down the road before turning his attention to the street around him.

  "Boy," he called. The messenger was no more than ten years of age and reeked of tobacco. "Head round to Bow Street and fetch a runner." He paid the lad his due, adding, "If you’re back within the half hour, I shall double your fee."

  The boy smiled, revealing yellow teeth, then tipped his hat and ran as fast as his spindly legs would carry him. Aidan smiled to himself and leaned a shoulder against a lamppost, awaiting the Bow Street runner he would hire to follow the enchanting Lady Rivenhall.

  Chapter Twenty

  Gentleman Jackson’s was crowded with fellow pugilists waiting to take their turn in the ring.

  The dark man did not unbutton his shirt until the clerk was close enough to appreciate the sight. He smiled, peeling the garment away from his well-defined chest as he said, "Glad you could make it, Woodson. Need all the supporters I can muster, what?"

  The diminutive man nodded, his pale eyes drifting downward, lit with anticipation.

  "Quite," Woodson agreed, captivated by the sight of the retreating white linen as it uncovered numerous scars that crisscrossed the dark man’s torso, making the one on his jaw look like a scratch.

  Annoyed, he clenched his fist and tried to stave off the memories, forcing himself to laugh at the sympathetic horror that had replaced the smaller man’s lust. He ran a finger along one of the larger of his raised scars, still pink from its all too recent infliction.

  "You think this ghastly? You should see my back." He laughed. The clerk did not. "It’s all right, old man, they don’t hurt anymore."

  "What…How…my God, how many battles?"

  "Not many." He smirked at the sickening irony. "The majority of my…" ---he touched the jagged scar on his jaw--- "Decorations were received after I had been captured."

  "Captured!" The clerk gasped, appalled.

  "Yes, but not to worry." He winked, not wanting to discuss the matter. "For some inexplicable reason, women love battle scars, run their hands all over them."

  Woodson’s lust returned as he imagined doing just that. The dark man laughed, causing his stomach to contract into hardened bands.

  "The ring is in this direction," he said, clasping his companion on the shoulder. "Did you place a wager?"

  "Yes," Woodson replied.

  The tall man looked down, giving the clerk his most charming smile. "On me, I hope."

  Woodson smiled. "Yes, of course," he said, glancing around the stuffy room that stank of cheroot smoke and sweat.

  "Good man. I shall speak with you after my bout. Shouldn’t take long," he said with an arrogant laugh.

  The clerk would enjoy seeing his dominance as well as his figure, and the dark man reminded himself to take his time in winning the match. He wiped sweat from his face, feeling the scar that traversed his jaw.

  He stepped under the rope that had been strung in a square about the room to keep spectators at a safe distance then turned his attention to his opponent. The young buck was large but untried. The dark man smirked, knowing that his experience in battle would always give him an advantage over the dandies that flocked to Gentleman Jackson’s.

  The bell rang, and the match commenced. He could hear the betting taking place all around him, shouts of encouragement to him but more for his adversary. He did not enjoy physical violence, but he was good at it. Always had been, when it was required.

  He waited for the boy to drop his fists and then hit him in the jaw. The boy grunted and jabbed back, missing and continuing to move toward him. He waited. The buck now kept his hands high and the dark man smiled to himself, striking the young man a punishing blow on the side of his soft gut.

  The crowd cheered; more shouts, more betting. He waited as the boy lumbered forward and struck at his face. He ducked, but the dandy landed a surprisingly powerful blow on his right shoulder.

  His jaw firmed with irritation. Enough of this. He advanced, cornering the boy in three strides. He could see the fear in the buck’s eyes as the boy flailed his arms as if uncertain how to protect himself.

  The dark man paused, and then with exceptional speed hit his opponent square on the nose, breaking it with a spray of blood across the beige tarp.

  The match was called, and a physician summoned to see to the boy’s wound. The victor smiled and made his way to the stunned clerk, whose jaw hung open as he watched the blood now pouring from the dandy’s nose and onto the canvas.

  The dark man rubbed his shoulder, reprimanding himself for allowing the blow.

  "Check my shoul
der, old man. Make sure nothing is broken."

  Woodson shook himself from his daze. "Y-yes," he said, looking at his companion’s shoulder as if it were a venomous snake.

  The dark man let his head fall back as he took air into his lungs. He closed his eyes and then felt the clerk’s tentative fingers probing his muscular shoulder.

  "Well done," a fellow pugilist offered with a slap on the back.

  "Thank you," the dark man said, opening his eyes and smiling when he caught Woodson staring at him.

  "Seems intact, my lord," the clerk pronounced with a guilty start.

  "Excellent, I’ll just go bathe, and then we can pop over to White’s and collect our winnings," he said, making his way to the bathing rooms and leaving Woodson to his own imagination.

  A half-hour later the dark man returned, cleanly shaven and attired in fresh garments. "There you are. Let’s dash over and pick up my winnings, shall we?" As they walked, he asked, "Are you attending Lord Hambury’s ball Friday next?"

  "No, I’m afraid I was not invited, my lord. Are you?"

  "Unfortunately so. Being a decorated veteran, I seem to get invited to all these bloody events. Oh, well, never mind; undoubtedly be a tremendous bore anyway. I’m only attending out of fear of offending Lord Hambury; the man does have an eligible daughter with a substantial dowry." He waved the thought away. "But I never could stomach the ladies of the ton." He turned to the clerk. "How about you?"

  The man turned bright red. "Oh, I never…That is to say--"

  "Don’t tell me you have a ladybird tucked away in Cheapside?" The dark man laughed. "Never mind, your secret is safe with me, old boy. Always found a mistress a bit of a nuisance myself, but to each his own, I suppose."

  "Well, I--"

  "Ah, here we are," the dark man interrupted.

  They entered White’s and he collected five hundred thirty-two pounds in the way of winnings, while Woodson sheepishly retrieved twenty-seven. Suddenly, the dark man wanted to be free of the clerk’s company, so he said the only thing he knew would rid him of the man.

  "It’s a bit early yet, but how about we celebrate my victory with two of Madame Florentine’s most skillful whores?"

  "No, thank you, I…There are one or two things I had hoped to complete for Lord Wellesley before tomorrow."

  "Got the ladybird on ice, do you? Well," the dark man said, clasping his companion on the shoulder a shade too long. "Perhaps next time."

  "Yes, next time," Woodson said, full of hope. "Good evening, my lord."

  "Evening," he answered, and when the clerk had gone, he considered that two whores would be just the thing to celebrate his victory…and his progress.

  ***

  Thursday morning the Earl of Wessex awakened to a knock at his bedchamber door. He glanced at a clock on the mantle--nine in the morning. Good Lord! Aidan groaned and cursed his butler for waking him at such an ungodly hour.

  "Yes, what is it?" he demanded, flinging the door open in nothing more than his dressing gown.

  "You asked to be notified if you received a communication from Mister Brown." Aidan’s butler lifted a polished silver tray that held a single sheet of paper.

  "Thank you," he said, dismissing his servant with an apologetic nod.

  Aidan ripped open the seal of the missive and sank into a red leather chair near the window. The message consisted of one line of script.

  My Lord,

  The lady in question is preparing to attend Lord Hambury’s ball.

  Sincerely,

  Mister Brown

  Aidan had no notion how the runners received their information, but he was grateful and would reward the man well. His brow furrowed in thought as he sat down to pen a letter to his sister.

  He yanked once on the velvet cord and lit a candle, dripping wax onto the back of the folded paper. He pressed his seal into the hardening paraffin just as his servant rapped on the door.

  "Have this delivered to the Duchess of Glenbroke as soon as possible." And just before the man left, Aidan added, "Oh, and have breakfast sent up?"

  "Yes, my lord, breakfast is already being prepared," his man said with a bow as he backed out of the room.

  Lord Hambury’s ball. Why Hambury?

  As far as he knew the man held no position that would be of any use to Lady Rivenhall; nor did Reynolds, for that matter. As chair of the committee for naval deployment, Elkin was, of course, an invaluable source of information, but had proved just as tight-lipped as always.

  Aidan sighed, seeing no pattern, no logic to her objectives, and for some curious reason that fact made him uneasy. Perhaps his disquiet lay in the fact that the woman had proven quite capable both in France and England, with this one exception. And that was the difficulty…there should not be an exception.

  Unless…

  His breakfast arrived and Aidan poured himself a large cup of coffee to clear his mind. The black brew was too hot and burned the roof of his mouth, but he scarcely noticed.

  Unless the lady’s targets were not of her own choosing.

  He smiled to himself, knowing he was correct. The woman had been given the names of men she was to investigate. Aidan slathered butter and strawberry jam on a portion of toast, taking a hearty bite.

  But who had given her the names? Surely, not Napoleon? The emperor’s reach was not that far, so there must be another agent already established in London. But the question still persisted.

  Why these men?

  Aidan continued eating while his mind was filled with possible answers to that question. But one thing remained clear. Lady Rivenhall was not working alone, and if he wanted to stop the transfer of information to the French, then his net would have to become much wider---he now had two fish to catch.

  ***

  The following afternoon, Aidan sat in the comfort of his club with his closest friends, Daniel McCurren and Christian St. John. The viscount had requested their presence in order to bid them farewell before departing for his estates in Scotland.

  Daniel’s brogue became thick as he lamented the difficulties of being the heir to an earldom.

  "So, the lass looks at me, in the midst of her husband’s ball, mind ya, and says, ‘Are you DunDonell’s heir’?"

  Aidan smiled, anticipating his friend’s bold lie.

  "I say ‘Aye’, and then the lady invites me upstairs for a game of hide the haggis while her elderly husband greets their guests downstairs."

  Christian rolled his eyes. "Bullocks."

  The Scot raised his auburn brows. "Is it?"

  "Yes," Lord St. John insisted as the viscount reached into his cobalt jacket and pulled out a lace handkerchief adorned with the lady’s initials.

  "‘A token of her esteem’," Daniel said with a wink toward the astonished Lord St. John. "I tell ya, Christian, it is na easy being a peer. You’re really quite fortunate to have your brother bearin’ the burden fer ya."

  "Yes, it is far preferable to have nothing to offer a woman" Christian said, and Aidan was momentarily surprised by the depth of emotion in his friend’s voice. "And when next I see my illustrious brother, I shall be sure and thank him for the sacrifice."

  Daniel did not seem to notice anything amiss. He turned to Aidan and said, "So…Mister St. John, here, tells me that you’ve been gallivantin’ around the country, which I must say is not a very kind thing to do to your intended, the beautiful Lady Appleton."

  Viscount DunDonell took a long draw on his cheroot, thoroughly enjoying himself, and Aidan turned on Christian with irritation, all thoughts of the young lord’s troubles forgotten

  "St. John, I do hope DunDonell is the only person to whom you have confided that ridiculous tale," he said threateningly.

  Christian turned to Daniel in silent reprimand, and the Scot burst into laughter.

  "I merely told Daniel that Sarah had it in her mind that you would marry Lady Appleton, that’s all. And if Viscount DunDonell had continued, he would have said that I told him you were having nothing to do wit
h it."

  Aidan’s dark brows furrowed. "I never said that."

  The two friends stared at one another, and Daniel whistled, sitting forward in his chair. "Now, this is gettin’ interestin’."

  Both men glanced at the Scot and back at one another. "You most certainly did say that, Wessex." Christian protested. "You sat in your sister’s dining room and said how annoyed you were by her entire scheme."

  Aidan nodded. "Yes, I was annoyed. I don’t need my sister’s assistance in securing a woman’s affections." He sat back in his chair. "Truth be told, I had considered Lady Appleton for my countess before I left for the peninsula." He shrugged. "It was merely unfortunate timing."

  Christian’s jaw relaxed, leaving his mouth agape.

  "My God, you’ve managed to render St. John speechless," the viscount said. "Could the apocalypse be far behind?"

  Aidan’s studied his brandy snifter, elaborately casual as he said, "As a matter of fact, I am escorting the lady to Lord Hambury’s ball this very evening."

  Daniel chuckled. "Well, done. The lass will make you a fine wife, Aidan. Congratulations."

  "I’m just escorting her to a ball. I’m not proposing marriage."

  "It begins with a ball, and before you know it, your--"

  "Does Lady Pervill have an escort?" Lord St. John interrupted.

  Aidan glanced at Christian, wondering at the uncharacteristic intensity of his tone. He shook his head, saying, "No, I don’t think so."

  "May I propose a toast," the viscount announced with all seriousness as he raised his cognac high in the air. "Here’s two two weddin’s within the year."

  "Oh, shut it, Daniel."

  "Sod off, DunDonell," they said in unison.

  The viscount’s roar of laughter filled the club, and he wiped his eyes before adding, "Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a woman waitin’ for my stunnin’ figure to satisfy her every need."

  Aidan looked at Lord St. John and smiled.

  "There is no need to leave, Daniel. Your mistress can call down to the servants for a glass of water," Aidan said, causing Lord St. John to break into peals of laughter.