by Lisa Chaplin
“Enjoy your nuncheon, madame. I apologize for the lack of privacy, but the ship isn’t large, and there’s only one cabin. I can’t ask the crew to set up another space for me.”
Despite her indignation, she almost smiled at the word nuncheon, as if they were in a London drawing room drinking tea and eating sumptuous petits fours. “Of course”—a brief hesitation—“Commander, I understand.” At that moment her stomach growled so loud, he must have heard. She ate before she embarrassed herself further.
Between mouthfuls, the hardest words she’d ever spoken came tumbling out. “I can never go back to Abbeville, can I? I—I must leave my son with him . . .” She used the water to gulp down the ball in her throat, pressed her lips together before she made a fool of herself.
The good humor in his eyes vanished. “I made you a promise, madame. You asked where the Scot went. That’s your answer.”
Despite the starkness of his words, his return to formality—he seemed as uncomfortable with their newfound intimacy as she was—she believed him. “Thank you, Commander.”
“I need no thanks. We made a deal.”
Uneasy of where the unseen dance would lead her—because she felt him leading her to what he really wanted from her in exchange for her son—she blurted the first thing that came into her head. “Am I going home now?”
A brief pause, an eye blink, no more. “There’s a vital mission here. We can’t leave yet.”
Again she sensed him leading her to the deal, but she couldn’t make herself ask her part in it. “I want to stay in France until Edmond’s with me, in any case. Is the Scot really your brother? Is Duncan your real name?”
Another hesitation, but he answered. Perhaps he sensed her withdrawing from him. “Yes, he is and no, it isn’t.”
Curt now, he didn’t like these questions. “When he talked to me, he called you Duncan.”
He put a blanket over her. “Did he?”
Within two words he’d gone into shadow, his face lost behind a lock of falling hair and momentary gloom caused by a cloud passing the sun. So he’d lied to her when he’d introduced himself in the tunnel. It made it impossible for her to think of him as Duncan. He wanted her to keep her distance? Then she would. Yet anger flooded her at the thought—and she gave in to her urge to challenge him. “Why did you hesitate when I asked you about my mother?”
He started and lost balance, dropping his cane. “Damn it, could you not startle me? I need to recover as well.” His free hand massaged his thigh, and he held himself stiffly, his face pale.
Refusing to apologize or back down since it was what he wanted from her, she waved a hand. “I believe the chairs are nailed down, Commander.”
He glared at her. In her experience men hated being put on the back foot. She knew better than to antagonize him when he’d shown a moment of being what she suspected was his real self. When he sat—not putting his back against the wood, giving her an answer for where else he’d been hurt—she asked, “Is my mother well?”
“Your mother was well the last time I saw her. Your father made no mention of any illness in his letters to me.”
Looking at him closely, she sensed he wasn’t lying; but he was holding something back. She was ready to argue the point, to ask when and where he’d seen Mama, but his face closed off. Recognizing the look, she saved her argument for when she was strong enough to continue.
When she’d eaten all she could manage, she handed him the tray. He put it back on the table with the little nailed-on sidepieces of wood that stopped it from sliding off, like a larger tray.
The ship rolled again. “I feel sick,” she gasped.
“West!” In seconds the burly Welshman was inside. “Take Miss Sunderland up on deck.”
Cradling her like a baby, West took her outside to the deck. On the port side, four chairs had been rigged with blankets to make two deck lounges. He put her down with tender care, laid a blanket over her, smiled, and left.
The hard wind and driving rain of the waves splashing over the hull revived her like a slap. She dragged in lungfuls of icy air until the queasiness settled. “Why am I known as Miss Sunderland here?”
The commander settled beside her in the other chair. “Most of my team knows Delacorte as our enemy. I don’t want anyone suspecting you—or making use of you as a scapegoat. We have a double agent on board,” he said in an undertone. His face was pale, but there was clear determination in his eyes.
The time had come. She drew in a breath and asked it, for Edmond’s sake. “Tell me what it is you want in exchange for my son’s rescue.”
The words came out hard and fast. “I need you to infiltrate the house of a certain man, live with him as—”
Panic slapped her like the waves against the ship. “No, I won’t. I can’t.”
He said nothing, but the air swirled with disappointment. And fear, sharp as a honed blade. Answering fright clawed at her like talons in the dark. She couldn’t do it—
“What man?” she found herself asking, against her will. Damn it, could she never control her curiosity?
“His name is Robert Fulton,” he responded, words prepared in advance. So he’d expected her to ask. “He’s an American inventor. His inventions could save Britain.”
More questions slipped from her mouth. “What inventions, and save Britain from what?”
“Invasion,” he said bluntly.
“Again?” she jeered. “Seventeen ninety-eight wasn’t enough humiliation for Napoleon?”
“He’d have succeeded then but for foul weather in the Irish Sea,” he replied, with a quelling look. “You have no idea how close he came to being Napoleon I of England.”
Chastened, she waved a hand. “Go on.”
“I tried to enter Boulogne-sur-Mer just before we met.” His voice was measured. “The land and sea levels of security surrounding the town beggar belief. One of my men got in with forged papers, but I haven’t heard from him in days. He’s been compromised at the least, dead at worst. Bonaparte’s arriving in seven weeks, and security levels have doubled.” He looked around before he leaned in. “The government refuses to recall the army from Egypt or Ireland, or the navy ships from the Caribbean. A spy of rank must take point, discover what’s there in time for Britain to recall our ships and set up defenses. We need time to prepare for war.”
The whistling wind snatched some of his words from her; she pieced them together by thinking. “How can the American help?”
The look on his face was a warning to lower her voice. Her gaze flicked to the right and left. When she looked back at him, he nodded and, with difficulty, moved his chairs so they were flush against hers. Even leaning so close to her, she had to strain to hear. “Fulton’s been working on submersible boats for almost a decade now. If we could use one of them to pass the ships in the harbor unseen, we’ll find what the French want to keep hidden.”
Through her shivering, she felt excitement stir. Boats that could sail underwater had existed since the time of da Vinci, and even she’d heard of Robert Fulton, the current world’s expert. He’d astonished people for years with underwater travel. How wonderful if she could see one of his boats close up! But if she showed too much excitement, the stranger would take advantage of it. “Why not hire one? Aren’t most inventors always short of funds?”
He nodded, with a wry smile. “Good thinking, and he is—but we’d need a navigator as well as someone able to work the contraption. I can navigate above water, but beneath . . .”
“Could Fulton teach you the difference and work the submersible for you?”
He grinned wryly. “Ah, there’s the rub. He’s a firm believer in republicanism. While he approves of French espionage in Britain, he objects to our spying in France. I’ve tried many times to bring him to our cause, but despite my best efforts to charm him, he doesn’t like me.”
Forgetting her pain, she chuckled. “I’d give a monkey to have seen you trying to charm a cranky republican—or anyone for that matter.
”
“Using cant terms, are we? Most unladylike, Miss Sunderland.” There was a lurking grin in those haunted eyes. “But you see the weakness in my plan. Charm isn’t my métier.”
Still smiling, she shook her head. “I was to woo him to the cause?”
He nodded. “You were to become his housekeeper and assistant, to learn as much as you can about these boats.”
“Tell the truth,” she said, sharply even though she kept her tone low. “No prevarications or lies, if you please.”
A long hesitation. “You may like him . . .” He hesitated again and shrugged. “If you do, anything else would be your choice, Lisbeth.”
He’d changed tenses in speaking, as if she’d already agreed. It was the first time he’d used her name since the tunnel: another tactic to soften her. It meant that much to England, then. It certainly wasn’t personal. Duty drove this man down a blind alley of damnation. “I told you at the beginning, I won’t do pillow talk. That will not change.”
He almost mumbled his question. “Even if it saves your country—your family—from the rape and pillage Boney wreaked on Parma and Piedmont? Even if it saves your son from being raised by Delacorte?”
She didn’t know if she blushed or whitened. “Is that how you justify asking me to ruin my life?”
“I thought you’d done that already.” When she turned her gaze out beyond the ship, her hands curled into fists, he jumped in. “I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have said that.”
She stared at the wild world beyond the ship, lead-washed sea and turbulent cloud. Her stomach churned as the ship pitched, but the cold, clean air kept it under control. “Why not? I’ve been called worse.”
“Not by me,” he said, voice rough with self-condemnation. “I beg your pardon. The troubles in your life—your decisions—have been partly forced on you by others.”
She turned to him, searching his face, but he was staring out to sea. “And?”
“I ask nothing of you that I haven’t done myself,” he said, voice heavy.
She uncurled her fists. “That’s immaterial, and you know it. A man can have a dozen lovers at once and the world admires him for it.”
“I judge myself. I’ve hated myself many times.”
Flushing, she floundered into silence. This territory felt far too intimate.
At last he went on. “For me, needs must when duty drives—but I can’t force you.”
Needs must when duty drives. It was a saying she’d never understood until now—until she heard the personal ghosts in the commander’s unseen carriage, driving him down a dead-end alleyway filled with self-loathing. But she felt no desire to mock him. It felt too much like looking in a mirror, seeing her cut and battered face there.
“Is there another woman who can perform this task? One who may have done this before?” She winced as her fingers probed the padding over the scar on her cheek.
He kept his gaze on the sea. “Besides you, there’s one woman in France who can play the part with any semblance of truth. I don’t know her name or nationality. She could be a princess, an actress, or a brothel madam, or a dozen other professions. She’s known from London to St. Petersburg as ‘The Incomparable.’ Her mission in Paris is as crucial as ours—and from what I hear she’s older than you, and too . . . sophisticated. Fulton would see through her. He likes . . .”
“Young women.” She shivered and pulled the blanket closer over her body. “I promise nothing. He may not like me.”
“He will.”
“You sound very confident,” she remarked, almost accusing.
He shifted on the deck chairs, as if his back hurt. “I have to be. You’re all I have.”
A little laugh burst from her. “You really don’t know how to charm, do you?”
He grinned as he shrugged. Did her scar show up as much as his did when he smiled? But his scars made him look like a Barbary pirate. Red, swollen, her scars made her look plain ugly.
Yet he believed she could do it. Do it for Edmond, her heart whispered.
“I can’t go like this.” She waved at the rough dress, the woolen slippers.
“We’re almost at port. If you give me your specifications, I’ll find a dressmaker to ensure you’re dressed as a lady.”
To port? Where were they? She peered over the deck to land, but in this miserable weather, she couldn’t recognize a landmark. She fought a longing to ask if she was looking at England. She’d show no weakness until Edmond was safely with her. “I’ve lost weight.”
“I’ll bring a woman on board to measure you—but you must promise not to speak to her, or ask where she’s from.”
It seemed she must learn to control her natural curiosity in some instances, make the best use of it in others. She fiddled with her fingers again. “What if he finds out who I am?”
“He’s a gentleman, madame, never fear. He’ll ask you to leave, or if he likes you, he may decide to give us a boat.”
Oh, how she hated that she needed the reassurance, and she hated more that he knew she needed it. Of course he knew. From the night they met, he’d led her to this moment. The idea of spying in Le Boeuf had never been more than incidental. She was the center of this mission.
More than anything, she hated that she had no choice but to accept if she wanted her son, and to return to England. “I want to write to my mother.”
“Certainly, madame. Give any letters you wish to send to me.”
Running out of excuses, she repressed the urge to sigh aloud. “Leave me to think,” she said coolly, trying to hide the aching in her heart and throat. She’d thought there wasn’t a sacrifice she wouldn’t make for Edmond, but this—
“Of course.” He pushed himself to his feet and limped away. A silent reminder of the sacrifices he’d made to save her.
When he was gone, she grabbed his blanket, and wrapped herself in it to stop the shivers. Even when she’d been in Abbeville, she hadn’t felt so cold or alone.
CHAPTER 20
Rue Laboratoire, Ambleteuse, France (Channel Coast)
September 4, 1802
I MIGHT HAVE KNOWN you were behind this particular miracle.” Pale and mussed, Robert Fulton glared at Duncan. “My gratitude hasn’t changed my principles. I won’t enhance the British Navy’s already indecent power in warfare with my inventions. To protect itself, France needs a weapon capable of counterbalancing your navy.”
In the failing light of late afternoon, Duncan stood outside the dark, crooked house, lost in a tangle of wild-growth brambles above a gorged rivulet leading to the sea. Its roof tiles were clunky and its windows too small, but the attic ran the length of the house, the doors were thick, the locks sturdy, and there were no neighbors for a mile—which was why Duncan had paid a year’s rent in advance for the house. When First Lieutenant Flynn told him France wanted to seize his inventions, Fulton had pulled out the inner workings of the badly damaged Nautilus and destroyed every schematic for good measure. But if Fulton’s turbulent relationship with Boney had sunk to a new low, it didn’t change his ideals or lessen his prejudice against Britain. “France doesn’t need protection from us, Mr. Fulton.”
“Oh, certainly. After invading the Americas, New Holland, and the African continent, Asia, and India, imposing British rule, language, and culture on its hapless inhabitants—at least those you allowed to stay alive—Britain fears the struggling little nation across the water,” Fulton retorted in a withering tone.
Acknowledging the hypocrisy in silence, Duncan thought, How many countries has the struggling little nation invaded, raped, and pillaged since declaring itself a republic?
But it was obvious Fulton was spoiling for a fight. Duncan felt too amused to give one. The inventor’s rhetoric engendered a vision of a mouse attacking an elephant. “It seems your presence and your work are unappreciated in France, Mr. Fulton.”
Fulton bristled. “That will change.”
“Bonaparte isn’t known for his capriciousness.” Despite having tried to
charm him many times before, Duncan didn’t care if Fulton hated him. The trouble and cost of moving the American’s paraphernalia to this isolated seaside village was less than nothing, if it gained Britain an underwater boat in good working order. “We’ll pay to repair Nautilus. Your work with the bombs”—he saw Fulton bristle, and amended, “ah, torpedoes and carcasses, will be easier with a fully equipped workshop and several qualified assistants.”
Fulton drew himself up. “This house is acceptable, and the five hundred francs I have . . .” He snapped his mouth shut, cheeks burning with awareness of his hypocrisy. The francs, like the relocation costs, had come from Duncan’s pocketbook: more than three hundred pounds sterling and far more than many men earned in a lifetime.
Recognizing futility, Duncan shrugged. “Use it wisely, sir. Bonaparte will never have such faith in you.”
“He will when I make the propulsion—you won’t trick me into speech!” Fulton snapped.
“I wasn’t trying to trick you.” Good God, these inventors were brilliant, but as paranoid as a prince’s aging light o’ love when faced with a young, beautiful replacement mistress.
Fulton gazed over Duncan’s shoulder. “I will not allow Britain to turn my inventions into death machines.”
He almost laughed aloud at the man’s willful blindness. “If we don’t, Bonaparte will. It’s the nature of men.”
“Maybe it’s the nature of those you associate with.” Fulton’s look burned with disdain. “I won’t work in the British Admiralty with the impertinent and imperious always at my shoulder, awaiting an opportunity to turn my inventions to their profit. France is finally independent of selfish kings and greedy lords and should thus remain. I wish you a good day, sir.”
As the funny door with its diamond-carved insets was about to close in his face, Duncan asked, “Is there anything else you need, Mr. Fulton?”
Fulton’s head popped around the half-shut door. “One sheet of glass cut onto four circular shapes for the observation dome, to this specification.” He shoved a piece of paper into Duncan’s hand. “Twelve iron sheets, and twenty strong rivets. Thirty-eight pounds of steel in strips, as high a quality as you can procure. A pair of bellows, and a portable forge in the stables, mounted on an iron cart and on wheels for ease of movement.”