by Lisa Chaplin
He sat again. “If the storm comes in, we’ll order a bath. The proprietor suspects us as it is. We have to behave as a honeymoon couple.” He grinned at her second blush. “Do you remember saying last night you had a plan for our little boat?”
“I—what—oh, yes.” She followed the careful trend of his conversation, his soft voice, in case anyone was listening. “It was to do with using the screw at the top. Do you think it could be modified so we could use it from the inside, as a drill?”
“For what purpose?” he asked, even softer now, frowning.
Unsure, she felt her way. “They’re new ships, you said? What did you call them?”
“They’re in the style of the Viking clinker ships, with a shallow hull for beach landings. They’re light and far more portable than traditional ships.”
“So they’ve been made quickly and might not be as strong as a warship?”
He nodded, intrigued. “Where are you heading with this? What’s the plan?”
“Can we use the torpedo-attaching screw—modified by a blacksmith or shipwright—to drill holes in the bottom of the ships?” she whispered diffidently. “We’d need to make more drills in line with the first. If we made a series of small holes, to cause slow leaks . . .”
“I see . . . yes, if we made holes along one plank . . . deeper holes could be made at the lazaret—the back of the cargo hold, by the keel—it would be difficult to notice at anchor. But when the ships put to sea, it would weaken the entire rib. It would bilge, perhaps even split.” Slowly he rose, closing the windows as the wind blew harder. “If only one rib bilges on a dozen ships on a new fleet, it would scare the rest. They’d need to return to port for repairs and confirm every ship’s seaworthiness before launching again. It could take weeks. By then our people will hopefully have recalled the ships from Ireland and Egypt and set some land defenses in place.” He sat again, as if in a daze. “It’s entirely practical. More, it’s brilliant.”
She sucked her lips in, trying to control the blinding smile.
His voice was awed, his face alive, blazing with excitement. His gaze turned to her, filled with wonder. “You called me a godsend the night we met—but if I’ve saved you, it’s you that keeps saving us—all of us.”
Lisbeth felt the smile break out across her face, like the sun rising. Happiness blanked her mind. She could think of nothing to say that would convey her joy. She would go home.
I am the baron’s heir. Marry me. With a single word, her ruin would vanish as if it had never been. She could have Edmond. Wife, mother, and a peaceful life in the milieu where she’d been raised. She could see her family again.
From across the table, he took her hands in his. “I called you your father’s daughter—but not even he would have come up with a plan so brilliant.” His thumbs caressed her palms, and all her hopes, fears, and plans vanished in the startling beauty of his touch.
She felt the blush cover her face, her smile almost painful it was so wide. “Thank you.”
“It’s I who should thank you. You might have saved us all.” His thumbs moved over her skin. “Anything you want, just tell me and if I can give it, it’s yours.” He lifted her hands to his lips, his eyes sincere yet tense, shadowed.
He thought she’d say she wanted Edmond, and to go home—and part of her desperately wanted to. But the other was here and now and made her feel as if the sun was rising after a long darkness. Turning her hands so her fingers wound through his, she whispered, “I want . . .” But her courage failed her.
“Tell me, love,” he murmured, leaning closer. “I swear if I can give it, it’s yours.”
Like a honed blade, the endearment cut her fears right off—and she remembered he’d called her that last night, too. “I want the kiss we started yesterday.”
Ten seconds of silence brought the fear rushing back. “I’m sorry . . . that was inappropriate. You said we had to keep watch . . .” She didn’t know she’d pulled her hand from his until she felt her fingers on her scar.
He took her hand from her face, laughing. “That’s my Lizzy. So much you could ask for, so many other things I expected, and you ask for the easiest thing I can give.” His eyes grew dark, intimate. He kissed her palms one after the other.
Duncan wasn’t a man for poetry or fanfares, but with two words, he changed the world. My Lizzy.
By using the nickname only her family and Georgy had ever used, he’d made it real; he wanted to be . . . intimate with her. Somehow it made his proposal feel real. “It means something to me,” she managed to say.
His eyes softened and darkened. “Ah, Lizzy.” With their hands entwined, he stood; she followed. He pulled her close, closer until their bodies fit against each other like puzzle pieces, two continents in their right places. “Lizzy,” he murmured again, bending down to her, and she loved the nickname on his lips.
She loved everything about him. She just loved.
How could something millions of ordinary people did every day change her forever? From hiding in darkness, he led her into the light; she felt beautiful for the first time in her life. A splendid glimpse of heaven’s light and her place in life came within a single kiss.
This was her man.
His hands moving over her waist and back, he whispered, “So this is all you wanted? Just a kiss?”
The happiness that came whenever he touched her had flooded her body. “Just a kiss? It’s been like this for you so many times?”
His low chuckle rippled through her. “No, love, it hasn’t. You bring the unexpected with you no matter what you do.”
No romantic words or poetic syntax, just simple sincerity. “Duncan.” Soft undertones in case of watchers, listeners, yet they kissed again and again. “The girls at the tavern—they said—”
“Yes?” he prompted with a soft kiss at her throat. “What did they say?”
Her head fell back. There was no fear, only joyous anticipation. “They said that with a man they desired, the act didn’t hurt. They said it was like dying, but you wanted to die. I never understood before, but now I feel like I’m on the edge of a cliff and I don’t care if I fall, so long as you’re with me.”
He smiled at her, and the shadows that haunted her from the first time she’d seen him had vanished. “We have to keep on the watch.”
Blushing harder, she whispered, “I—I know. But—when we’re safe . . .”
With slow kisses along her collarbone, he whispered, “As soon as we’re truly safe, but I won’t risk your life now. Nor will I risk Edmond.”
She froze. “What do you mean?”
In her ear, he whispered, “I told you there’s a double agent among my crew. Alec and Cal are trying to find him now. Whoever he is, it’s likely he reports to Delacorte.”
Her blood chilled inside her. Edmond. The blood draining from her face, she murmured, her hands falling from his body, “Would he—the double agent—tell Alain that we’d come here together? And—and we stayed here overnight, together . . .”
“Only Alec and Cal are using the semaphore for now, and when Cal’s gone, Flynn and O’Keefe take over. I trust both utterly,” he said quietly. “But you’re right. Once we return to the ship, we must show no sign we could be anything but commander and team member for Edmond’s sake.”
“Thank you for caring for my son.” She went up on tiptoe and kissed him a final time before stepping away. “Most men wouldn’t have put the needs of a child they’d never met before their wants. But when Edmond’s safe with me in England, I’ll ask you again.” It wasn’t in her nature to make empty denials for pride’s sake.
“Lizzy . . .” From his discarded breeches pocket, he pulled out something. “I bought this when I first made the offer to your father, hoping it would be your betrothal gift. Damned if I know why I brought it to France. I thought I’d given up hope. But I brought it with me yesterday in the hope that you’d accept it—and me.” He thrust it at her like a street vendor plying his wares and jerked to his feet, loo
king out the window.
Wordless, she stared down at the piece in her palm. It was a gold locket with a dark velvet riband threaded through as a chain. It was oval, perhaps an inch and a half high and an inch wide, intricately engraved with what looked to be climbing roses. “It’s lovely.”
“Open it,” he said, voice gruff.
When she loosened the tiny clasp, the opened halves held two miniature drawings, of him before his scars happened—perhaps at Cambridge—and one of her, in what seemed to be a copy of a kit-cat painting of her at sixteen. Moved, she whispered, “Duncan, I . . .”
Suddenly he swore. “Gendarmes are heading this way.”
CHAPTER 43
IT TOOK A FEW moments to comprehend his words. By then he’d stashed two pistols in the pockets of his cloak he’d thrown over the army uniform and was tying a rope to the bedpost. Lisbeth watched in fascination. Heaven knew where he’d stolen all these things. “We’ll have to go out the window. Put on your cloak and follow me.” He swung over the sill and scrambled down.
Following wasn’t easy when she was trembling like a bowl of calf’s-foot jelly in the hands of a drunken butler. Soaked through by the rain in seconds, she cursed herself for forgetting her gloves. Her hands burned as she slipped rather than climbed down.
“Let go,” he whispered harshly. She closed her eyes and dropped. He caught her in his arms and put her down. “Keep to the shadows.”
She nodded and moved into the shadows by the inn wall, inching her way to the opposite street corner from the gendarmes.
Knocking and yelling sounded from above, banging at the door. “It’ll take a few moments to kick the door in, and move the cupboard. Head for the tavern kitchen.”
Her heart hammered and she fought to control her breathing. Lightning flashed above them, the wind howled around the buildings.
“Wait,” he murmured when she’d have run. “Next lightning—wait—go.”
A brilliant flash crossed the sky; rain sheeted down. They ran into the open doorway and closed it behind them. “Stay with me. If anyone looks at us, we stop and kiss. I’m a soldier in the Grande Armée, and you’re my sweetheart.”
Quelling an odd sense of irony, she took his hand. They walked into tavern kitchen and through, holding hands, talking and laughing about being drenched. Joking, kissing, they walked through the tavern. Coins clinked; Duncan must be tossing money at the servants for silence. In half a minute they were through the tavern and on the road.
“Keep walking to the next alley,” he murmured, holding her hand tight. “If they see us, run. I’ll cover you. One of us must get back with our report, and ready Papillon for its return mission here. It’s all that matters.”
She squeezed his hand. “We can’t operate Papillon alone unless we sail it. We must stay together.”
He nodded, pulled her to him, and kept walking.
Through the side alleys of Boulogne, down the hill, hiding behind crates, slipping inside open doors, and back out, a fifteen-minute walk took half an hour. “I look like a drenched cat, and I stink,” she muttered, hiding behind a third crate of half-rotten vegetables.
“Be grateful for the rain, it’s kept us alive.” He grinned. “And it will clean us if anyone upends a chamber pot on us.”
She threw him a withering look, but doubted he could see it in the murk of the heavy storm clouds turning day to dusk.
“You’ll be hot soon enough inside Papillon.” He pointed. At least twenty gendarmes were heading up the hill at a run. “They’re checking all the newer vehicles. They’re after a well-to-do couple. So far they’ve still bought the lie. If anyone questions us from now to Papillon, you’re a whore and I’m your customer.”
She sighed mockingly. “Always the whore.”
He didn’t answer, and the unfinished scene at the inn came flooding back. Her smile faded. “Duncan, I left the locket behind.”
Duncan swore. “Now they’ll have pictures of us to distribute.” He sighed harshly. “We must all get out of France now.”
“Cal?” she murmured in an urgent undertone. Edmond.
He smiled at her, but something in his eyes was hollow. “We’re taking Cal back to the closest port to Abbeville when we return to ship. I’ll tell him to execute his plan to take Edmond as soon as he returns. Don’t fear, Cal has a plan complete and ready to go—and Cal, Alec, and I worked out a semaphore code that the mole can’t possibly know about. We’ll get Edmond out, never fear.”
She nodded. “Let’s get to Papillon,” she said curtly.
Rue de Miromesnil, Faubourg Saint-Honoré, Paris
November 3, 1802
Light tapping on Georgy’s window startled her from calling instructions to her maid, who was seeing to her afternoon tea. A quick, frightened glance, but the face there wasn’t Camelford. With a small sigh, she lifted the window sash. “There is a front door, madame. It’s the accepted manner for visitors to knock.”
“Calling on you once was acceptable. Any more would arouse suspicion, and your footman is suspect. Don’t fear, the foul weather has kept most off the streets.” The Incomparable pulled off her damp cloak and laid it over a chair by the fire to dry. In a sky-blue walking dress, she was even lovelier than in yellow—but how did the woman climb up to the first floor in it, and without loosening a hair in her braided chignon? What was she, a tumbler from the circus?
Georgy shook off the useless questions and asked the pertinent one. “What do you need, madame? As you can see, we are packing to leave Paris.”
“That’s why I am here. You can’t leave, not yet. We need you in place here.”
Half expecting the command, she shook her head. “Impossible, madame. Since his return from the north Monsieur Bonaparte has been less social than usual. He spends most of his time abusing the English. Even the new ambassador, Lord Whitworth, can’t soothe him. He barely speaks to me now. My mother . . .”
The Incomparable nodded. “Yes, yes, she wants to go home and begin preparing for your wedding, now that you have your duke. I saw him first. He has already agreed to stay here and keep back any announcement of your engagement until this mission is complete.”
“Thank you,” Georgy said, with ice in her tone. “In what manner may I serve you, now that you have rearranged my life to suit England?”
The other woman only laughed. “We all rearrange our lives to suit England, my dear. You’ll become used to it. We need you to charm Bonaparte once more.”
“Didn’t you hear me? He’s barely even talking to me now. I think he suspects—”
“Yes, he does. You must diffuse the situation. Camelford has been arrested for trying to kill Lord Bonaparte”—Georgy gasped—“and Camelford not only has information that you are an Alien Office operative, but me also, and your dearest John. He also read certain papers from Mr. Pitt’s desk when visiting. He may think to use the knowledge he has to bargain his way out.”
“Isn’t that all the more reason for us all to leave, now?” Georgy asked, eyes wide with the fear making her heart slam against her ribs. “We could be arrested at any time!” Even protected as she was, she’d heard of the infamous French prisons, and the manner in which young women were treated, forced to use their bodies in exchange for food—
The other shook her head, looking impatient. “Your friend Miss Sunderland is in grave danger on a mission in an underwater boat,” she murmured in an urgent undertone. “We must do what we can for her. We must know where Camelford is being kept before he breaks. The knowledge he has is vital to Britain’s interests—you cannot imagine how vital, Lady Georgiana. You’re in a position to help.” When Georgy backed away, shaking her head, The Incomparable said, sighing, “Very well. These letters are from Mr. Pitt, and another from your intended. I believe they say everything you need to hear to help you make a right decision.”
Before she even put out a hand, Georgy knew what she had to do for Lizzy, if for no other reason. If Lizzy could risk her life in an underwater boat, then she co
uld go to some parties in a palace. With a sinking feeling, she realized that the British Alien Office had a hold of her, and they didn’t intend to let her go.
Boulogne-sur-Mer
The storm abated at last, clashing chariots of light and sound over the churning sea. Huddled in their cloaks, Duncan and Lisbeth crouched beside yet another crate. They’d spent the day hiding in seedy back-alley taverns, lasting only long enough to dry off or gulp down food before heading back out into the wind and driving rain to avoid the gendarmes. Once they paid a pie vendor to hide behind his cart, but more often than not it was this, crouching behind crates of old vegetables, frantically quiet while the rats munched and scurried about.
It was nearing sunset by the time they reached the river. Hanging lanterns swung from poles, lighting the entire estuary, where armed patrols and gendarmes ran in all directions.
Here, just one street behind the river, it was dark and slippery. The night people making their way to inns and brothels would come soon. Now was the strange abeyance of twilight, the dearth of light and sound after a storm.
“The patrols will pass us soon.” Duncan took her hand again. “We need to make a convincing show if anyone sees us.” He drew her closer so they walked like lovers.
“Someone’s coming,” she whispered moments later.
He nodded. He’d seen the soft halo of fog-shrouded lanterns as well. “Be ready.”
A group of green-uniformed men came out of the curling sea mist like the plague of frogs in Moses’s Egypt. Throwing back his cloak, Duncan showed his similar green uniform to the soldiers. It was two inches too short and too tight, but pray God it would pass. He pulled the cockaded hat from his cloak pocket and crammed the damp and crumpled thing back on his head. “Time for the show.” He turned her into his arms and kissed her, reveling in her skin’s heat. How was she so warm, when the drenching rain left him half frozen?