Napoleon's Woman

by Samantha Saxon

  The earl’s horse slowed to a stop, and Lord Wessex glanced about at the riders that had begun to turn their heads with curiosity.

  "You heard me."

  Gilbert gave Apollo a squeeze with his thighs and the pair was once again ambling down the path. "How is that possible?"

  Aidan rolled his eyes.

  "Damn it, Aidan, you know my meaning. Then she is not Napoleon’s paramour?"

  Aidan shook his head beneath his beaver skin hat. "You would not believe me if I told you. Regardless, Gilbert, I am unable to contain the woman. If information were passed to the French due to my inadequacies, I would never forgive myself. Tell Whitehall that if they wish to investigate the lady then they can handle the matter themselves."

  The pair rode in silence for several minutes, each man lost in his own thoughts.

  Gilbert contemplated the situation.

  If Lady Rivenhall was indeed a French collaborator, and after meeting her, he readily believed the woman capable, then it was crucial that she be watched. However, the woman would be more likely to contact the French without the Earl of Wessex nipping at her heels.

  "Very well, Aidan, I shall speak to my contact as soon as is possible."

  Aidan’s shoulders relaxed visibly. "Thank you, Your Grace," he muttered, continuing down his path.

  ***

  "Very well. Tell Lord Wessex we will begin a second, more thorough investigation."

  The duke sat back in his chair, suspicion narrowing his eyes as the old man’s sinewy hand moved a rook.

  "Who will you assign?"

  "Fredricks."

  "He’s in France," the duke sat forward and stared at the old man. "You’re keeping information from me, my lord."

  "Am I?"

  "Don’t be vague, Lord Falcon. I have seen the maneuver too often."

  The old man chuckled. "I suppose you have, Your Grace."

  "The prime minister will want to be informed." Gilbert positioned his knight, waiting for an explanation that was being formulated behind Falcon’s sharp eyes.

  "Wessex has complicated the situation enormously." The old man sighed.

  "What situation?" Gilbert knew he would be told only what was deemed necessary.

  The old man leaned forward. "Has it never occurred to the Earl of Wessex that his escape from Albuera was rather…unencumbered?" The man gave a raspy chuckle. "I mean to say, the French are fools, but not that bloody incompetent."

  The duke’s eyes widened. "Are…are you saying that Lady Rivenhall is--"

  "Yes, a double agent recruited by myself seven years ago after her father was murdered by the French. She was only sixteen at the time, but if you have seen the girl then you know why she is now in favor with the emperor himself.

  Her father, Lord Rivenhall, was the liaison officer at the British embassy in Paris when he met her mother, a French noblewoman. They married and remained in France to be near the lady’s family. Unfortunately, the lovely woman died suddenly when Lady Rivenhall was but three.

  I watched that little girl grow more stunning with each visit to the embassy, and when her father was executed before her very eyes, I offered to bring her here. She refused." For the first time in Gilbert’s remembrance, he saw emotion in the old man’s eyes.

  "If her father was murdered by the French, why would Napoleon trust her? Surely, he would question her loyalty."

  "Lady Rivenhall is quite resourceful and so beautiful that a man wants to believe what she tells him. She arrived at court in Paris and offered her services to aid in the war effort.

  When interrogated, she told authorities that her father had beaten her all of her life, and that she hated him and his country, which she had scarcely seen."

  "They believed her?" Gilbert asked with skepticism.

  "Not initially, she was forced to prove herself time and time again. Smiling triumphantly as she witnessed British officers being put to death. Men she knew she could not save." Sadness pulled at the corners of his mouth.

  Gilbert waited for the old man to take a sip of sherry before continuing. "At the age of eighteen, Lady Rivenhall caught the eye of the emperor himself. Having any number of officers to attest to her loyalty, Napoleon took her into his confidence."

  The old man looked up and held the duke’s eyes. "For the past four years Lady Rivenhall has been our most valuable agent. If not for Celeste, the Earl of Wessex would have been dead two times over."

  "How so?"

  "Not only did Lady Rivenhall arrange for the earl’s escape, she also gave us vital information Lord Beresford needed to win the battle of Albuera. If not for her, your brother-in-law would most assuredly have died there."

  The duke’s blood ran cold. "What can we do to assist Lady Rivenhall in unmasking this traitor?"

  "Nothing! You must do absolutely nothing, Your Grace." The old man spoke with fervor. "Only the two of us know of her existence, and it is imperative that it remains so. Since Wessex’s escape, the emperor has watched Lady Rivenhall very closely.

  I suspect he has allowed the girl to come to London as a test of her loyalty. If she is suspected in any way, she will be killed, and the traitor will continue his activity." The elderly man shook his head. "No, better she be believed a French spy than suspected as a double-agent."

  "Are you suggesting that I am not to inform even the Earl of Wessex of her identity?"

  "Particularly, Wessex. With this man, this Lion, walking amongst us, it is too dangerous. Time and time again, he has accessed privileged documents contained within the walls of Whitehall. I, myself, took the precaution of destroying Lady Rivenhall’s file in order to protect her. Lion believes her to be Napoleon’s mistress. He will trust her, but if there is even the whisper of suspicion…"

  "My brother-in-law would never divulge the lady’s identity." The duke’s voice was harsh, insulted.

  "No, not intentionally, but remember this." He paused to emphasis the importance of his point. "In every ballroom, every soiree, every event of importance held in London, there with be a French collaborator present, watching. Some we know. Many we do not. One amiable glance from the decorated Earl of Wessex, the man she is suspected of helping escape, could put the girl in danger and send the Lion into his den." The old man sat back, straightening his mundane waistcoat.

  "You will inform Wessex that the Foreign Office is satisfied with its investigation. That you personally have had a look at Lady Rivenhall’s dossier and are in total agreement with the findings." The old man pierced him with a glance. "You must trust me in this, Your Grace. We cannot allow this leak to continue, even if it means sacrificing Lady Rivenhall."

  "I am not sure that Wessex will let the matter rest. The girl seems to have disconcerted the man."

  "Wessex?" The old man asked, surprised. "The boy is as steady as a rock."

  "Quite, but the fact that Lady Rivenhall was a virgin when he came to her bed seems to have confounded our young earl."

  The old man’s laugher was lined with sorrow. "Well, well, well, the lady is more skilled than I gave her credit for. She managed to become Napoleon’s mistress without ever having bedded him. Quite amusing, that. Well, never mind. Inform your brother-in-law that the situation is resolved and that he is to give Lady Rivenhall a wide berth."

  "He will not be happy."

  "Yes, well, none of us are happy about the war, Your Grace. Cunningham’s been complaining about the embargo all week, says he can’t procure the proper parchment to write my missives as Whitehall is being rationed. Can you imagine?" The spymaster chuckled, moving a pawn. "Checkmate. Now"---the old man rose---"If you will excuse me, Cook is preparing her special beef stew and has threatened to give it to the dogs if I’m late to supper."

  Gilbert stood, watching the old man shuffle down his marble corridor. He bent his head to study the chessboard, thinking that if they wagered on the outcome of their weekly chess match, Falcon would be able to purchase enough beef stew to fill Hampton Court.

  ***

 
"Aidan, you will soil your garments." Sarah flicked crumbs off of his Bath superfine with one hand while bouncing her ten month old daughter on her right hip.

  Aidan looked down at his nephew who sat happily on his lap. He spooned bread pudding into the boy’s tiny mouth and asked, "You would never think of soiling my garments would you, Sebastian?"

  The boy mumbled through cheeks full of bread pudding.

  Aidan laughed and accommodated the boy with another spoonful of the dessert. He watched his nephew’s crimson lips close around the spoon, so sure that his needs would be met.

  "Do you ever wonder why Father did it?"

  "Went to war?" Sarah asked still bouncing Constance on her hip.

  "No, at Lincelles?" Aidan stared at his nephew. "Why he charged the French line?"

  "No, I have never wondered. It was his duty. Father was a very brave man."

  Aidan tried to stave off the irritation he felt every time he was reminded of his father’s bravery, because he knew his irritation would inevitably be followed by guilt. His father had been the best of men.

  Everyone said so.

  "Mmm," Aidan said, wishing he had not broached the subject.

  Sarah reached for a spoon and began feeding Constance before her twin brother consumed the entire bread pudding. "I don’t know why you of all people are asking me. You have fought in far more battles, and just as bravely I might add, as father ever did." Sarah smiled, her cheeks pulling into dimples. "Bravery must run in our family."

  Sebastian burped, saving Aidan from having to agree. "I see that you take after your boorish father," he said, tickling his nephew on the neck and eliciting a laugh that always made Aidan wonder if the babe had lost his ability to breathe.

  "Aidan, you really are so good with children. Perhaps you should think about having your own."

  The earl glared at his sister, saying, "Thank you for the oh-so-subtle probing into my personal affairs, Sarah."

  The duchess reached for the bread pudding and with a frustrated huff, said, "Well, Aidan, here I thought I had made you a wonderful match and you let Lord Elkin steal your bride right from under your nose. I mean really, how are the twins to play with their cousins if there are no cousins to play with?"

  Aidan lifted a brow toward his sister. "Foolish me, I thought it was my happiness you were concerned with, sister dear. Perhaps I shall just pop ‘round the corner and produce a playmate for the children."

  "Oh, cork it, Aidan." Sarah wiped her daughter mouth. "What about Juliet? Perhaps I was a bit hasty in my assessment. The girl really needs watching, and you can be absolutely pedantic at times."

  "Pedantic!" he protested.

  "She needs a steady hand, Aidan. You would cringe at some of the things the girl says in public." Sarah sighed.

  "What things?" he asked, not really caring.

  "Just the other day, she was telling Felicity and me a rumor about Lady Davis’s lover. We have tried time and time again to dissuade her predilection for gossiping--"

  "Who was he?" Aidan interrupted.

  "No, idea. Juliet said the admiral’s servants never saw the man clearly. He was tall and wore a hat that obscured his face."

  "Then how do they know this man was her lover."

  Sarah blushed. "They heard them. Well, to be accurate, Lady Davis’s niece heard them when she was visiting."

  "How often did this man visit the admiral’s wife?"

  "Aidan," Sarah said, her eyes narrowed. "Why are you so interested?"

  "Just curious," he lied.

  "You are never just curious, Aidan." Sarah patted her daughter on the back. "As a matter of fact you cannot abide gossip."

  "It is not gossip, Sarah." Aidan placed his nephew on the black marble floor. "The lady was murdered by one of the male members of the ton."

  But his mind was not on Lady Davis’s mysterious lover, it was on the woman who very likely commissioned the murderer to obtain the information so valuable to France. His mind was on Lady Rivenhall.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  John Elkin sat opposite Lady Appleton in a private box at Vauxhall gardens.

  They had enjoyed the musical concert and were finishing a dessert of strawberries and cream infused with brandy. The young lord dabbed at his lips and touched his pocket for the thousandth time that evening.

  "Are you all right, John?"

  Lord Elkin smiled at Felicity over a silver candelabrum. She was breathtaking tonight. Her burgundy gown was cut to perfection to complement the simple elegance that defined the woman who wore it. Large ruby ear bobs dangled over the graceful neck he longed to kiss, and his chest constricted painfully the longer he gazed at her.

  "No, Felicity, I am not all right. I have not been all right since Lord Hambury’s ball." Her fair brows creased, and he knew that if he did not act now, he never would find the courage again.

  John rose and walked to her side, bending on one knee. She gasped, but he tried not to notice her surprise. He took a steadying breath and then said the things he had wanted to tell her for two years.

  "Felicity, I have loved you from the first moment I met you. You are my dearest friend and the desire of my heart."

  "John--"

  "Please, hear me out." She had tears in her soft brown eyes, and he had no idea of their meaning. "I know that you were not in love with me two years ago and might not love me still. But, my sweet Felicity, I swear to you that I would spend every hour of every day ensuring your happiness. I am well aware that neither I, nor any man, deserve you, but. . ."

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out the box containing a ten-carat, yellow diamond betrothal ring. "I hope now that you comprehend the depth of my esteem and that you might consider me worthy enough to be your husband." His heart was on his sleeve. "Marry me, my dearest Felicity."

  Her gloved hand was covering her mouth, and tears streamed down her lovely face. The lady glanced at the engagement ring and then stared into his eyes. John held his breath as he waited for her answer.

  "I…I thought that if this moment came, I would not hesitate." Felicity placed her hand on his cheek and crushed his heart with her gentle caress. "I thought I would be able to say ‘yes’ to the dearest man I have ever known."

  John struggled to rise to his feet against the weight of his pain. He turned away from her and closed his eyes in a futile attempt to protect himself. But it did not work. He was bleeding with each word she uttered.

  "John, it is I that am not worthy of your esteem, and if I could turn my traitorous heart in your favor…I thought with more time…" His chest ached as she stifled a sob. "Forgive me, John," she said, and then Lady Appleton ran out of their box, leaving behind her a broken man.

  As a gentleman, he should go after her, but he hadn’t the strength. Her carriage was just down the crowded path, and he knew that she would be safe. He, however. . .

  John sank into his chair and opened the box that held all his hopes and dreams. He stared at the sparkling diamond and snapped it shut, hoping to seal his pain within the confines of the black velvet box.

  Lord Elkin sat alone for a very long time, but the longer he sat the more stifling the private enclosure became. He threw back the heavy blue curtain and stepped into the cool night air. How could he have let this happen? How could he have allowed himself to feel the pain of it for a second time?

  How could he not?

  Lord Elkin reached his carriage, climbed in, and rapped on the roof.

  "Where to, my lord?" his driver asked.

  "Just drive."

  His arms were crossed over his chest as he stared out the window. He tried to allow the rocking of the carriage to soothe him, but he remained restless. He didn’t want time to think, to be alone.

  A brothel?

  "My club," he decided, but as they made for his club on St. James Street, he began to worry that someone would see his pain beneath the bright lights.

  And then he saw it.

  "Stop," he called to his coachman.
r />   The man positioned the carriage where he always did when dropping Lord Elkin at Whitehall. It was two o’clock in the morning, but surely someone would be there. And if not, John could catch up on his correspondence; work would be the perfect distraction. He jumped down from his landau, his great coat billowing behind him.

  "Evening, Lord Elkin," the night watchman offered.

  "Evening."

  His Hessians clicked down the empty corridors, and as he approached his office, his brows furrowed in confusion. He stared at the light shining from beneath his door. The charwoman, no doubt, he thought to himself.

  But when he opened the door he knew he had been mistaken. His eyes collided with the dark man searching his desk. He recognized the young lord immediately and knew in an instant that he was staring at the face of their traitor.

  Had his shock not been so great, had he walked more softly, had his mind not been distracted, perhaps he would have reacted more swiftly.

  But he did not.

  And when the bullet entered his chest, he was surprised that he had time to look down at the wound before dropping to his knees on the cold wooden floor. He turned his head and watched the man leave, and then the room began to dim.

  And as his lifeblood pumped out of his body, the last thought that eased him into unconsciousness was Felicity.

  ***

  The Earl of Wessex read the missive a second time as his carriage rumbled down the empty streets of London toward Whitehall.

  My Lord,

  The lady in question has left her home dressed as a scullery maid and has arrived at the Foreign Office, where she remains. I shall wait across from the front entrance to receive instruction.

  Yours,

  Mister Brown

  The runner emerged from the night shadows the moment Aidan’s carriage came to rest.

  "Where is she?" The earl’s tone was terse.

  "Inside. The night watchman would not allow me to pass," he said, his eyes offering an apology.

  Aidan slapped the bulky man on the shoulder. "Couldn’t be helped, Mister Brown. If the lady emerges before me, detain her."