A Matter of Indiscretion

by Jackie Barbosa

  “Rousseau,” Sabine corrected, dropping a curtsy she hoped matched his in its degree of respect demonstration and deference avoidance. “I have only known the identity of my natural father for one day, and as I have never met him and my mother was married to the man who raised me from the day I was born, I would prefer you use that name, if it is all the same to you.”

  Duval’s dark eyes flickered with an emotion that hovered between amusement and…well, pain. “If it were all the same to me, I would be known by the name my mother gave to me and not the name given to me by the man who enslaved us both, but it is not the same. Names have power, and sometimes, the name that gives you the most power is not the one you were born with.” He grinned then, and the expression was fierce. “Anyone who thinks to belittle a man by naming him after a deity with literal power over life and death does not truly understand the power of names. You might wish to consider that before you decide which name you wish other people to use when addressing you.”

  Pearce shot Duval a warning look. “Until we are safely out of France, it is best if she has no name at all…or a completely false one, at any rate.”

  Their host’s smile relaxed. “True, true. And I apologize if I have given offense.” He waved at the nearest arrangement of chairs. “Now, please, have a seat. You must be in need some refreshment after your journey. Do you prefer tea or coffee, mademoiselle?”

  “I am grateful for the offer,” Sabine said, “but I fear I must decline. I really must see to my horses.”

  Duval raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Surely you need not concern yourself with that. My staff is more than capable of seeing to their needs.”

  She shook her head firmly. “Now it is my turn to hope I do not give offense. I am sure your people are very competent, but I prefer to care for my horses myself, especially since they are not accustomed to traveling so far in a single day. Also, my mare is in foal, and I wish to assure myself that she is doing well.”

  “I see.” Duval glanced at Mr. Pearce, a slight frown creasing his features, and then back at her. “I had heard about your horses from Mr. Pearce’s colleagues. They were…dubious, at best, as to the wisdom of attempting to take them to England. Given that I have some small investment in the success of this venture, I am inclined to agree with them. I assure you, if you were to leave them here, they would be well taken care of.”

  Sacre bleu! Was she going to have to argue with every man about this? It was tiresome to have to explain herself over and over again. But then, that seemed the lot of women: tirelessly repeating their arguments to men who always assumed they knew better, even when it came to matters they knew nothing about.

  But in this instance, she was saved from the necessity, because Mr. Pearce said, “We have already had this discussion, and leaving the horses in France is not an option. I understand and agree with Mademoiselle Rousseau’s wishes in this matter, or I would not have brought them this far.” He gave her an apologetic look before adding, “You know perfectly well I was empowered to bring her against her will if necessary, and if I had not believed we could get out of the country safely with them, I would have done so.”

  Sabine stared at him as his words sank in, shocked. “You would have abducted me?”

  “If I had not been able to convince you to come of your own accord, I would have had no other choice. I would not have liked it, but simply walking away and allowing you to fall into the hands of Napoleon’s regime was never a choice. Surely you must have realized that by now.”

  She should have, but she had not. All this time, she had been thinking of him as some sort of paragon of decency and goodness. Had believed she could trust him when he had told her that leaving France with him was her decision.

  Now she knew the truth. He was no different than any other man—except her beloved Papa, of course. Oh, she had to give Mr. Pearce credit. He had put on a convincing show, and she had fallen for it as women had no doubt been doing for centuries. Because when a man told a woman he respected her wishes and supported her decisions, what he really meant was that he would respect and support her as long as what she wanted was the same thing he wanted. The moment their goals diverged, a woman was always, always at a man’s mercy.

  She had allowed herself to forget that. Thomas Pearce, otherwise known as Allard, had waltzed into her life, and between his pretty face—and, be honest with yourself, Sabine, his pretty body—and pretty manners and that damnably delicious kiss, which she was well aware was entirely her fault, he had made himself seem special. Unique. Trustworthy.

  Well, she knew better now, and she was glad. Her eyes only stung because she was angry with herself for being such a gullible fool.

  Pulling herself to her full height, she forced a smile she did not feel in Duval’s direction. “Now that Mr. Pearce has assured you that at least one man approves of my choices, I really would like to go tend to my animals. If you will excuse me.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she pivoted smartly on her heel and marched back into the foyer. She came to a full stop at the bottom of the staircase that wound its way up to the second level, where no doubt her trunk awaited her in the room that had been assigned to her. Which she had no idea how to find.

  Merde.

  10

  “She does not seem pleased,” Duval observed wryly. He handed Thomas one of the two snifters of cognac he’d poured in lieu of the tea or coffee he’d offered to Mademoiselle Rousseau.

  Thomas knocked back a healthy swallow of the smooth, fiery liquid and grimaced. “No, but we are all better off if she does not have any illusions about the situation. The next ten or eleven days are going to be unpleasant, so it is best if she knows it is too late to change her mind.”

  And the revelation had put some much-needed distance between them. Her anger and disillusionment should make her less likely to entertain romantic fantasies about him, and since preventing himself from entertaining all manner of far-more-explicit fantasies about her seemed highly unlikely, they would both be safer if he was the only one fighting temptation.

  But Duval did not need to know that. Nor was Thomas going to examine how badly he had wanted to follow her when she’d stalked out of the sitting room the second time—having been forced to return to ask for directions to her assigned bedchamber—and take back his words. He had accomplished his objective by saying them. He just hated that his objective meant she would now be looking at him with disappointment and distaste rather than admiration and desire.

  “So,” Duval asked after taking a sip of his own drink, “convince me that you can get her safely out of the country when it is going to take three times longer than you originally planned.”

  Thomas puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled. Getting Brunell and Harcourt on board had been difficult enough, but Duval was likely to be even tougher, and he had damn good reason to be. So far, his assistance to the British and others who opposed Bonaparte’s regime had gone unnoticed by the French authorities, but if Thomas were to be caught in possession of anything that could tie him to Duval, the man might be in considerable peril. “Mostly by misdirection,” he said, after considering which aspect of the plan to concentrate on first. “Remember, her uncle has no reason to believe I am anyone other than who I claimed to be: a member of the Allard family. In addition, Mademoiselle Rousseau herself quite craftily planted evidence that we eloped. Taking the horses with us bolsters that idea, since I doubt her uncle would have believed she would go anywhere willingly without them. If we had not taken the horses, he might have suspected we were in a hurry, and that might have led him to the conclusion that I am someone or something other than I claimed. As it stands, he will want her back, but he will almost certainly begin by looking in the wrong direction and he is unlikely to consider the possibility that we are planning to leave the country. Even if he does, it is not likely to happen until after whoever he sends fails to find us in Tarare. It should be at least a week before they find out that we are not where he thought we would be.
By then, we will be almost to Le Havre, and catching up to us will be difficult if not impossible, even if they correctly deduce almost right away where we have gone.”

  Duval tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I am…nearly persuaded, but between the horses and her hair, I fear you will be very memorable. Even a week may not be enough if some helpful innkeeper reports to the wrong person that he remembers the pair of you.”

  “I agree. Which is why I must ask you for two additional resources beyond those I originally requested.”

  “And what would these ‘resources’ be?”

  “First, an inconspicuous carriage to replace the one we brought from Igny. I bought that one outright, and Rousseau will be sure to have talked to the owners of the coaching inn who sold it to me. This means it is a bad idea for us to continue using it.”

  “I can do that. And it is not a new request. You had planned to use the carriage-and-four all the way to Le Havre. Now you will only be using a carriage. So, I will not even charge you extra for it.”

  Thomas arched an eyebrow. “And how much will you pay me for the coach I am leaving behind? For which, by the way, I paid at least twice what it is worth.”

  “Now, now,” Duval replied on a chuckle. “You can hardly expect me to compensate you for an item I never intended to purchase.”

  “Oh, that was exactly my expectation. But I thought it was worth a try in light of the fact that you are already ahead on this particular deal.”

  The other man’s expression sobered. “I will not be ahead until you and the young lady have departed France’s shores without leaving any evidence of my involvement in the matter. My help does not come cheaply for a reason.”

  Thomas took another swallow of cognac and matched his expression to Duval’s. “I understand. You have to continue living here.”

  “And doing the work of the angels.” Duval sighed, his shoulders drooping ever so slightly, and Thomas recognized for the first time the true weight of responsibility the other man had taken on. He could have gone from slave to free and fabulously wealthy, counted himself lucky, and frittered away his hard-earned fortune on wine, women, and song. Instead, he had decided—even before Napoleon’s reversal of the Law of 16 Pluviôse—to dedicate himself to the cause of freeing every other enslaved human being on the planet. Duval drove hard bargains, to be sure, but he had good reasons. The softening of the man’s demeanor passed as quickly as it had come. “You said ‘resources.’ A carriage is but one resource. What else do you require?”

  “A coachman for the first night. Due to the change in our arrival time at Le Havre, Brunell and Harcourt need to ride ahead to let the ship’s captain know we will be later than planned. That means I must send Jenkins, who drove from Igny this morning, ahead of us to Paris so they know when to expect us as well. I can hire another coachman at our next stop, but I need someone to get us from here to there.”

  Duval gave a decisive shake of his head. “No. I cannot do that.”

  Thomas blinked in surprise. He’d thought this would be the easiest of his requests for Duval to fulfill. “Why not?”

  “Because you cannot have a coachman who is not fully aware of the situation and what is at stake. You need a driver who will be able to recognize a potential hazard and communicate with you so you can take appropriate action. You will not get that from a random coachman you hire at an inn. You need one of my men.”

  Until that moment, Thomas had been planning to hire a new coachman each night, but he could immediately see the wisdom of Duval’s suggestion. “Whom did you have in mind?” And how much will it cost me? The foreign office had supplied him with substantial funds, but as he considered spending three times as long traveling as he had originally anticipated, he felt a trifle light in the purse.

  “My sister’s stepson, Bernard, is staying with me for a few months, trying to decide whether he wants to be a part of the ‘family business.’ He is young and a bit wet behind the ears, but he knows how to drive a carriage, and this will be a good opportunity for him to get a sense of the risks he might be asking other people to take for the cause. And he keeps asking me for something ‘important’ to do, and I cannot think of anything much more important at the moment than getting you and Mademoiselle Rousseau off French soil.”

  Thomas drained his cognac to cover his unease at the suggestion. He did not believe Duval would do anything that might jeopardize the mission—not deliberately, anyway. But the idea of entrusting so much responsibility to an untested young man worried Thomas. Of course, given his own lack of experience for the task with which he’d been entrusted, he might reasonably be accused of throwing stones.

  Still, he had to ask.

  “How confident are you that this nephew of yours can be trusted, Duval? Because your description thus far has not exactly left me brimming with faith.”

  The other man smiled broadly, displaying a mouthful of very white teeth. “I trust him to be afraid of what will happen if he fails to follow my directives. Which means I trust him as much as I trust anyone.”

  Which said more about the degree of faith Duval had in anyone than it did about his nephew’s trustworthiness, but if that was the case, Thomas wasn’t likely to get anyone better if he objected. He would just have to make do with what he could get.

  “Now that that is settled,” Duval continued, “is there anything else you would like me to provide?”

  “As a matter of fact, I believe you observed that Mademoiselle Rousseau’s rather distinctive hair color might be a problem.”

  “I did.”

  “I have had similar concerns and have given the matter some thought.”

  “And…?”

  “Well, I know it is terribly out of fashion these days, but would you happen to have any hair powder still lying about?”

  Thomas disliked Bernard Joubert on sight. But perhaps that was simply because he had been seated next to Sabine at the dinner table, and he could not seem to stop gazing at her in puppyish adoration whenever he thought no one was looking.

  Thomas was always looking.

  His dislike might also have been founded on the fact that Joubert was an extraordinarily handsome young man, with curly, golden hair and soft, brown eyes that would have made Adonis himself weep with envy. Nor was there anything remotely dandyish about Joubert’s looks; everything about him was both pretty and unmistakably masculine.

  Sabine smiled at the young man, who must have said something amusing—not that Thomas’s mood allowed him to pay attention to their conversation despite the fact that he was seated directly across the table from Sabine—and Thomas cut into the meat on his plate while fantasizing that it was Joubert’s liver.

  Good God, what was wrong with him? Hadn’t he, mere hours ago, made a deliberate effort to ensure that Sabine would no longer focus any romantic attentions on him? Discouraging her interest in him had been his intention, yet here he was, mentally chopping another man into bite-sized pieces because she was doing exactly what he had wanted.

  “—think, Monsieur Pearce?” she asked.

  Thomas blinked at her use of his name and looked up to find her gazing at him expectantly. What he thought was that she looked radiant. Although the dark green gown she wore was less elaborate than the blue silk of the night before and her hair was styled in a simple knot at the nape of her neck, the very plainness of her costume only served to emphasize her natural beauty. “What do I think about what?”

  She smiled—briefly at him, and then more lingeringly at Joubert—and Thomas feared his heart would do something melodramatic, like crack open his ribs and leave him bleeding on the table. “We were discussing the relative merits of powder versus shoe blacking for disguising the color of my hair. Monsieur Joubert favors the powder, but I doubt anyone would believe that my hair is naturally white, which would spoil the entire purpose of the exercise. Black hair, however, is feasible, especially if I color my eyebrows as well, so I think shoe blacking is the preferable alternative. What is your opinion
?”

  Shoe blacking? She was thinking of using shoe blacking on her glorious sunset-colored hair. Was she mad? “I think that powder will wash out, but shoe blacking almost certainly will not,” he said, managing an even tone despite his horror.

  “That is exactly what he says,” she said, tilting her head in Joubert’s direction, “but so what? Hair grows out, after all. And I am told that short hair is all the rage for ladies in Paris these days. If it is not already popular in England, perhaps I can make it so.”

  Thomas had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from forbidding her, right then and there, from cutting her hair. The images he’d been painting for himself since the moment they’d met—of her lying on a bed beneath him, her hair spread across the pillow like molten bronze—flashed through his head, and his loins tightened with all the heat of a forge. He wanted to run his fingers through that hair, coil it around his fingers, use it as a lever to pull back her head and trail kisses beneath her ear, along her jaw, down her throat. She couldn’t take it away from him before he’d even felt it brush against his skin as she rode him…

  Christ, man, get a grip. You’re not ever going to feel her hair in any of those ways, remember? You are making sure of it.

  And of course, if she wanted to cut her hair, that was entirely her choice. It was no business of his at all and wouldn’t be even if he were her lover. But in spite of that, his instinct was to demand that she never even consider such a thing, because the idea didn’t suit him.

  Dear God, she was right. A man simply could not stop himself from wanting to tell a woman what she could and couldn’t do. It was like a disease that had wormed its way into the male psyche, a certainty that even when it came to her own body, a man knew better than a woman what should be done with it.

  Somehow, he found his voice…and didn’t shout the first thing that had popped into his head. “With any luck, you will never have to choose between the two options. I only asked Monsieur Duval to supply the powder in the unlikely event that we cannot keep your hair covered up by a bonnet or hood. It was always intended as a last—not a first—resort. Powdering hair is messy and time-consuming, and I cannot imagine that coloring hair with shoe blacking would be any tidier or quicker. Let us hope it does not come to that, shall we?”