A Matter of Indiscretion

by Jackie Barbosa

  The mention of her mother’s death still had the power to make Sabine’s throat raw. Although Maman’s passing had not been unexpected, as her health had been in decline for some time, it had been no less painful for its predictability. With her mother gone, Sabine was truly alone in the world. Uncle Etienne and Aunt Marguerite might tolerate her presence in what had become their house upon her Papa’s death, but only because they had a legal obligation to care for her until she married. And marry she would, but on her own terms and to the man of her choice, not by being bartered to a stranger to further her uncle’s political and financial ambitions. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Why…why did you want to see her?”

  “I have some family heirlooms—jewelry, actually—that belonged to our great-great-grandmother. Her will specified the items must be passed along the female line, and so they passed to your mother when my maternal grandmother died several months past. Now, with your mother gone as well, I suppose they must belong to you, as you are the sole surviving female in the line.”

  Jewelry? That might belong to her and only her? The notion was dizzying. “How much do you think these items are worth?” She regretted the question before it even sprang from her lips, knowing full well it made her sound cold and mercenary. And yet, she had to ask, because with just a little money of her own, she could escape Uncle Etienne and Aunt Marguerite altogether. A few thousand francs would buy a decent cottage with a stable for her beloved Percherons; the farmers who bought them wouldn’t care whether she was living in a manor house or a hut.

  Her uncle let out a harsh laugh before clapping Monsieur Allard on the shoulder. “I told you she was a strange one. What sort of girl, presented with jewelry, wants to know their monetary value before she’s even seen them?”

  The sort of girl who is tired of being a poor relation.

  To her surprise, Monsieur Allard merely smiled. “A wise one, I think, who knows she may become a target of opportunistic suitors if she suddenly comes into a fortune. Of course, she need not worry on that score, as I am sure you would never allow such a fate to befall your beloved niece.”

  Uncle Etienne’s complexion reddened. Perhaps he did have a conscience beneath that atavistic exterior, even if he rarely chose to exercise it. “Just so, just so,” he said gruffly. “My niece’s happiness and security are of the utmost importance, which is why I would be happy to keep the jewelry in trust for her to protect her from unscrupulous suitors.”

  Sabine suppressed an unladylike snort of disbelief. Protect her from unscrupulous suitors? He was more likely to sell her to one. And he would be just as quick to sell her jewelry should he get his greedy hands on it. She should have known better than to attribute him with even a shred of common decency.

  Before she could open her mouth to express her confidence in her ability to avoid marrying a moneygrubbing miscreant, as she was, after all, intimately acquainted with the type, her cousin—and oh, it was difficult to think of such a comely and dapper gentleman as a relation of any sort—smiled and shook his head. “As much as I appreciate the sentiment, Monsieur, that will not be necessary. No man who has ever married into the family has dared to contravene the terms of the original will, which designated the ownership of the items in perpetuity.”

  “But that will would hold no legal weight today,” her uncle pointed out. “Under the current code, my niece’s property will become her husband’s when they marry, as I expect you know. Surely that puts her at risk.”

  Sabine feared her eyes might roll out of her head at this hypocritical expression of concern. The current code was the brain-brat of none other than Napoleon, her uncle’s icon, and he had often praised the self-proclaimed emperor for his wisdom in reforming the legal system to properly reinstate the husband as the head of the wife as God had intended.

  Monsieur Allard glanced at her just long enough for her to make out what she was certain was a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye. “Well, then, you must be certain to invite me to the wedding when the blessed date arrives so that I may impress upon her future spouse just how unfortunate it would be for him to take liberties with…er…the family jewels.”

  Sabine clapped her hand over her mouth to keep her laughter from spilling out in a guffaw. Her uncle turned a pleasing shade of purple, although she wasn’t sure whether that was a reaction her cousin’s off-color remark or his promise to put the strong-arm to her groom.

  “Now,” Monsieur Allard continued, “I am sure my cousin must be in danger of taking on a chill in her current state of dress, and I should hate to lose the last of my female relations when I have only just found her.” He gave her a brilliant smile that made her feel anything but chilled. “Perhaps we can convene again after dinner? That is,” he added, turning his attention back to her still-addled uncle, “if you will see fit to allow me to dine with your family this evening so that my cousin and I may become better acquainted.”

  Uncle Etienne could have refused, of course, but Sabine knew he would not. Granted, his hopes of getting his hands on her inheritance had been dashed, but her uncle would never allow a newly discovered, demonstrably wealthy relation to escape without determining some means of taking advantage of that connection. If there were money or influence to be gained, Etienne Rousseau would convene with the vilest and lowest creatures to walk or slither the earth. “Oh, I believe we can do better than that, Monsieur Allard,” her uncle said, his tone suddenly quite jolly. “Why do you not stay the night with us? Then you will have plenty of time to get to know us all better. You are family, after all, and families should not be strangers.”

  “That is quite gracious of you,” her cousin replied. “I accept your kind offer.”

  The offer was more self-serving than kind, of course, and yet, as Sabine climbed the stairs to her room a few minutes later, she couldn’t help thinking that her cousin had got one over on her uncle rather than the other way round. There was more to Monsieur Allard than met the eye, she was sure, which was not to say that he did not meet the eye quite satisfactorily. But he was more than the well-to-do young dandy he appeared, and he was up to something more than merely giving her some family heirlooms. What that something was, she had no notion, but instinct told her that whatever his intentions, it would be in her interest to support them. And that meant the last thing she wanted was for him to think of her as the poor, provincial peasant girl he’d encountered just now.

  In which case, she had a lot to accomplish before dinner.

  3

  When the light knock sounded on his chamber door, Thomas assumed it must be a servant, perhaps to bring extra linens or inquire as to the suitability of his accommodations. He frowned with irritation at the interruption, minor though it was likely to be.

  After two hours in the company of Etienne Rousseau, Thomas needed some time alone to gather his composure, lest he be tempted to spring across the table during dinner and strangle the man. There was a fine line between being diplomatic, for which Thomas was suited by both disposition and training, and feigning agreement with—and even admiration of—opinions and attitudes one found repugnant. Rousseau’s fawning devotion to Bonaparte was hard enough to stomach, but the way he disparaged his niece made Thomas’s blood boil. Not only because there was no excuse for such maltreatment of another human being, but because it was quite obvious to Thomas that the screeds against her were nothing new. Mademoiselle Rousseau was, in her uncle’s estimation, lazy, ungrateful, and profoundly unladylike—she bred Percheron draught horses for the local farmers, for pity’s sake, in clear violation of every precept of genteel feminine behavior—which was why not one of the suitors Etienne had so thoughtfully selected for her had deigned to marry her.

  Thomas’s mouth quirked up at one corner. He rather suspected the failure to deign had been on the young lady’s part, as opposed to the other way round. Defiance could have been her middle name.

  Or Temptation. Because muddy, disheveled and impertinent as she’d been, she was the most beautiful, most intere
sting, most stimulating woman he’d ever encountered.

  And the most utterly off limits.

  With a sigh, he set aside the book he’d purchased upon his arrival in Paris—the recently published Le Dernier Homme by de Grainville, a fascinating if somewhat strange story about the end of the world—and rose from his chair. The sooner he answered the door, the sooner he could get back to distracting himself from his disgust…and his attraction.

  He pulled open the door, a curt thank you and dismissal already formed on his lips.

  Sabine Rousseau stood in the corridor, her red-gold hair haloing her head like a tiny sun in the lamplight. She had exchanged her mud- and manure-spattered woolen dress for a simple yet elegant gown in a vivid shade of blue that reminded of him of the sky on one of those rare, perfect summer days in Lancashire. The waist of the dress was too low and its bodice too modest to be truly fashionable, but it displayed more than enough of her silken skin and well-rounded bosom to give him ideas he’d be better off without.

  He was fairly certain he only groaned with desire inside his head. At least, she gave no indication he’d made any audible sound, for she said, “May I come in? If I stand out here much longer, someone is bound to see me.”

  With a curt nod, he stepped aside so she could enter, then shut the door behind her. He caught a tantalizing trace of her scent as she passed by: fresh grass, ripe apples, and sunshine. Inviting. Dangerous.

  Though not particularly large, the room was spacious enough to accommodate a four-poster bed, a handsome wardrobe and armoire, and a seating area comprised of two wingback chairs upholstered in pale blue damask with a round end table placed between them. The chairs faced the open grate in which a coal fire that was actually almost sufficient to keep the room at a comfortable temperature burned.

  Mademoiselle Rousseau strode with obvious purpose in the direction of the chairs. “We need to talk.”

  They certainly did, but this was not at all how Thomas had rehearsed any of his interactions with the premiere’s as-yet unmet daughter. To be fair, he had not ever managed to sort out exactly how he would accomplish a private conversation with her, but in his imagination, he was always the one to initiate the discussion. He’d anticipated a slow, gentle reveal of the facts, though he’d been unable to think of any way to soften the blow of the unpleasant truths he had to disclose.

  I regret to inform you that the man you thought was your father was, in fact, not your father, and that your mother had an affair with the man who is the Chancellor of the Exchequer and acting premiere of Great Britain, and that I am not actually your cousin as I claimed, but a representative of the British crown. Oh, and also, your uncle who isn’t really your uncle claims that in addition to being Mr. Pitt’s daughter, you are also a British spy and rabble-rouser, so I need you to leave everything you’ve ever known and accompany me to England so we can keep you out of Bonaparte’s clutches.

  Alas, none of that sounded good or terribly convincing, even in his head. And that was before he’d met her and understood that she was very much her father’s daughter: smart, strong-willed, capable.

  He was also flummoxed. What did she think they needed to talk about?

  Several possibilities crossed his mind, the most worrisome being that she somehow knew she had no surviving relatives on her mother’s side and had thus seen through his ruse regarding his identity. If that was the case and she was as hostile to the British as her uncle—this seemed unlikely, given their obvious antipathy toward one another, but even enemies could share enemies—then he might be in hot water indeed. How should he play it if that was the case? Invent another explanation for his visit? Tell the truth and hope she disliked both her uncle and Bonaparte enough to overlook Thomas’s nationality and take his part? Damn it, he’d been trained as and was constitutionally suited to be a diplomat, not a spy. He was in over his head.

  And perhaps because he was a diplomat and not a spy, his response was rather stupid. “We do?”

  Her nod was emphatic. “It is about the jewelry.”

  Relief made his pulse stutter. “I see,” he said, although nothing could be further from the truth.

  She gestured toward the chairs. “Please, can we sit?”

  “Of course.” He moved toward the farthest chair, the one he’d vacated to answer the door, and sank into it while she lowered herself into the other with a care that suggested she was doing her best not to wrinkle her gown.

  Once they were both seated, she picked nervously at her skirt for a few seconds before taking a deep breath and blurting, “You must not give it to me.”

  All men were base creatures. Thomas, being a man, was well aware of this. But it still surprised him that the image that flashed through his mind when she spoke these words did not involve giving her jewelry—which, after all, he’d never intended to give her in the first place—but spreading her out naked beneath him and giving her a rather particular part of his anatomy.

  Over and over.

  No, he mustn’t give that to her. But he very much wanted to.

  The sudden and explicit—and wildly inappropriate, for God’s sake—thought rendered him speechless for long enough that Mademoiselle Rousseau rushed into to breach to explain further. “I have thought about it a great deal, you see. At first, I admit, I was thrilled at the prospect of receiving a legacy of such value, but then I realized how selfish that is. I only wanted the jewelry so I could sell it and use the proceeds to purchase my own property. I have been saving for a place of my own since Papa died five years ago, but even with Gaston’s stud fees, it’s going to be another five years at least before I will have enough to get out from under Uncle Etienne’s thumb.

  “With the jewelry—depending on its value—I may have enough to leave tomorrow. But if I sell the jewelry, even just a few pieces, I will not be holding true to the intent of original bequest. So, I could not do that, could I? It would be wrong.” She finally stopped to take a breath and gave him a pleading look. “Do you understand?”

  He should have stopped her right then. Should have told her there was no jewelry to give. (Well, strictly speaking, there was jewelry. He had brought several of his grandmother’s pieces with him to lend credence to his ruse if he were questioned. That didn’t mean he’d ever had any intention of actually giving those pieces away. His grandmother would have his head if he did such a thing.) Should have told her she had nothing to apologize for since it was all a ruse he’d invented to gain access to the Rousseau household…and to her.

  But all he could do was imagine how her sunset-colored hair would look fanned out across his pillow.

  Fortunately, she seemed to take his lack of a response as acceptance and barreled on. “But even though I have decided not to sell them, you still must not give the jewelry to me because if you do, I am sure my uncle will find some way to get his hands on it. He’s desperate for funds to improve his social and political standing, and if he knows I have something of value, he will take it. The only reason he has not managed to confiscate my savings is because he has no idea I have any; he thinks I put every penny I earn from my horses back into caring for them.

  “So please, don’t give me the jewelry. Tell Uncle Etienne you were mistaken, I am not your long-lost cousin, and the jewelry does not belong to me after all.”

  Well, he was never going to get a better opening than that. “I am not your cousin.”

  She blinked, then smiled and nodded approvingly. “Oh, yes. If you say it like that, I am sure my uncle will believe you.”

  Thomas shook his head. “You misunderstand me. I am really not your cousin. We are not related at all, insofar as I know, and I never intended to give you any jewelry. It was all a story I made up to get close to you.”

  Her expression went from amusement to confusion to disbelief. “To get close to me? But…why?”

  He settled more fully into his chair, trying to keep his manner gentle and reassuring. If she got upset or angry or frightened before he could convince her tha
t he had her best interests at heart, the whole operation could be over in a matter of seconds. If she hated the British even half as much as most of the French had learned to do over the last few decades, he could wind up spending a lot of very unpleasant time in a French military prison, a prospect he relished not at all.

  But where to begin? None of his mental rehearsals had truly prepared him for the reality of this moment.

  He thought about what she’d told him: her efforts to save enough money to establish her own household, her uncle’s desire to ingratiate himself with Napoleon. Perhaps she would be more receptive to leaving home than he’d anticipated.

  So he’d start there. “To get you away from here before your uncle succeeds in using you to curry favor with the emperor.”

  She let out a huff of surprise. “How on earth could he do that? I am a simple country girl who breeds Percherons for local farmers. What possible interest could the emperor have in me?”

  “Because you are not just any simple country girl,” he told her bluntly. “You are the only natural child of the Honorable Mr. William Pitt, currently the Chancellor of the Exchequer and acting premiere of Great Britain.”

  And then he waited for the axe to fall.

  4

  Sabine stared at Monsieur Allard, a strange mixture of disbelief and curiosity coursing through her veins. He was either barking mad—which seemed unlikely—or he was telling her the truth.

  She had known for as long as she could remember that her Papa was not her natural father. It had never mattered. To either of them. Claude Rousseau had loved her without reservation or condition, and she had returned that love measure for measure. When he died…