by Sara Ramsey
As he walked toward Madame Octavia, he felt the heat of battle rise within him. In Spain, he would have checked his weapons and made his final preparations. Here, he channeled his readiness into an easy smile, one designed to charm his enemies.
It took less than ten steps to reach Octavia’s circle. “Madame Octavia,” he said, aiming for a tone somewhere between pleasure and boredom. “Your party is as lovely as I’ve always heard them to be.”
Octavia smiled up at him. Her gorgeous dark eyes sparkled nearly as much as the diamonds around her throat. “You cannot be that charmed yet, my lord,” she said. “You’ve been here less than ten minutes.”
He hadn’t expected such a forthright response. He’d only met her once before, in Hyde Park, during a brief conversation on Rotten Row. She’d been there with Somerville, and he’d seen her loyalty to the man then. She hadn’t been quiet — no one who knew her had ever claimed that meekness was one of her traits. But from what Rafe had heard, she never said anything that might put Somerville in a bad light. She didn’t play suitors against each other for her own gain. She would have made far more money as a courtesan if she had taken other lovers.
Still, it would behoove him to test his assumption of her loyalty. He arched an eyebrow. “Have you been watching me so closely to know the precise moment of my arrival?”
She matched his arched brow with one of her own. “What kind of hostess would you think me to be if I didn’t note each new arrival?”
“I didn’t mean to insult your skills, of course. Allow me to say I’m flattered that you noticed my presence and leave it at that.”
She gestured at a footman, who rushed over at her command. “Bring Lord Rafael another brandy, and I shall have champagne,” she said. Then she turned her attention to the other men and women in her circle — all of whom lounged as though nothing could possibly interest them, even though their eyes gleamed with the same malicious curiosity Rafe often saw in society establishments. “If you’ll excuse us, I require a word with Lord Rafael.”
It all happened so quickly that Rafe could have believed Octavia was a general and not a courtesan. The crowd of admirers dispersed without so much as a murmur of protest. He wasn’t sure whether to be grateful that Octavia had engineered this moment alone — or suspicious of her motives.
His suspicion, as usual, won. “Is there some way in which I may be of assistance, Madame Octavia?” he asked, as neutrally as possible.
“Perhaps.” She looked him up and down as though inspecting goods at a market. It was the sort of blatant appraisal that never would have happened at Almack’s. He felt his blood warm under her gaze.
“Do you see something that interests you?”
She laughed. And again, he had the oddest sense that what he heard from her was real, not a façade. “I shan’t answer such an obvious question, my lord. Please, sit, and tell me why you are really here.”
The footman came back with their glasses, which gave Rafe a few precious moments to consider his strategy. “I shan’t answer such an obvious question, madam,” he said, parroting her excuse back to her as he took the chair next to hers.
“Then we are at a sad impasse, aren’t we?”
He shrugged, sipping his brandy. He wished she hadn’t offered it — he had cultivated a reputation in the ton as someone who was usually in his cups, but it wasn’t nearly as accurate as people assumed. He let the barest trace of alcohol pass over his tongue before answering. “If you wish the truth, I could tell it to you, I suppose.”
“How generous of you,” she said. “And what if I asked for a lie instead?”
He quirked his lips. “I am very good at those.”
No one in England, save for a few men at Whitehall, knew that Rafe had been a spy in Spain. Not even his brother knew about his capture by the French or his dangerous escape from Paris, in which he’d posed as an American painter until he could hire someone to smuggle him across the Channel. He couldn’t go back to Major Scovell’s intelligence unit on the front lines — if the French captured Rafe again, they would execute him. Wellington and Whitehall wouldn’t risk that, no matter how much value Rafe’s intelligence had provided during the war. Instead, they had insisted that he stay in England and await the end of the war, when he could turn his skills toward diplomacy.
That was why he was out every night, attending parties he didn’t care about. Almost everyone, including his siblings, thought he’d sold his commission the year before, but Whitehall still needed him — there were very few officers in the intelligence corps who could gain entry to the highest parties and social clubs. Rafe kept an eye on foreign diplomats and French exiles in London, spreading disinformation and gathering secrets, without anyone being the wiser. He played the charming, idle aristocrat who had sold his commission to pursue a life of pleasure.
And he chafed against it all. At least Somerville gave him a mission that felt more immediately useful. But it was the very nature of the group he worked with in Whitehall to know everything that happened in Britain and abroad. If he wanted to destroy Somerville without them finding out, he couldn’t be obvious about it.
Octavia grinned as though she somehow knew that his comment about lying was the most truthful thing he had said so far. “Shall you give me a lie and a truth and have me guess which is which?”
This was the kind of flirtation he needed to encourage — fun and meaningless now, but it would lead to gaining her trust. “Will you give me the same honor?”
“If you would find it entertaining,” she said. “But I assure you, I am a terrible liar.”
He let the brandy touch his lips again. “I shall be the judge of that. Do you care to start?”
Octavia shook her head. “I proposed the game, so it is your turn.”
“That doesn’t sound like any rule I’ve heard of.”
“You may discover that I do not follow rules very well, my lord.”
She said it with the right mix of insouciance — exactly how a courtesan would say such a thing. But for the first time that night, he detected a hint of misdirection.
“A truth and a lie?” he asked. “Do you care to wager on it?”
“Your money doesn’t interest me, my lord. Somerville sees to me well enough.”
If she meant it as a warning, it was perfectly done — opaque enough that he couldn’t take offense, but direct enough to make the boundaries between them clear. “Good. I always feel like a cad after I outplay a woman.”
She grinned. “I am not so easy to outwit.”
Again, her directness was refreshing. Most women in her position would have flirted, or at least made herself seem less intelligent than the men around them. But Octavia had made it clear that she had no interest in taking him to bed and no reason to let him feel impressive.
The fact that he found her refreshing might be a problem. But he would consider that problem later. “A truth and a lie, you say?”
She sipped her champagne, watching him over the rim of her glass. “Unless you have changed your mind about sharing a secret.”
He couldn’t tell her anything truly secret — not about his current mission against Somerville, nor about his efforts during the war. “Very well. One fact, which may be true or false, is that I wish to secure Somerville’s support to install me in one of his pocket boroughs during the next election for the House of Commons. And the other fact is that I am utterly enamored with you.”
He hadn’t planned either statement. When he was in danger, he always found it better to trust his instincts rather than appearing to think things through — the longer he took to think, the more time his quarry had to wonder if he was lying.
He probably shouldn’t have said anything about being enamored with her — it was a dicey ploy at best. Especially since the other “fact,” about pursuing a political career, was definitely a lie. But it would test whether she was susceptible to seduction, or whether he would have to try a different tactic.
Octavia’s mouth drop
ped open a bit. But she was a consummate lady, despite her reputation, and she recovered immediately. “You would make me choose between whether you want me and whether you need Somerville?” Her voice was still light, but there was an edge to it. “That’s hardly a contest.”
“Do men often come to you because of Somerville?”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course. I already suspected that that is why you’re here. Somerville controls dozens of seats in the Commons. His friends have positions open for vicars, secretaries, land agents, and other jobs. Half the men who talked to me before you arrived were attempting to curry my favor for just such an opportunity.”
Interesting — she didn’t like being curried for Somerville’s favor. He filed that fact away. “So you guess that Somerville is the truth, and my desire for you is the lie?”
She scanned his face. This time, the appraisal wasn’t meant to throw him off his guard — it seemed that the answer to that question was deeply important to her and she didn’t want to get it wrong.
“You must be here for Somerville,” she decided. “You and I have only met once. The rumor mill has it that you don’t take mistresses. You can’t possibly be here for me.”
“Why would the rumor mill be talking about my preferences?”
“You are young, titled, and still in possession of all of your limbs despite the war. Per society’s expectations, if you don’t have a mistress, you must be in want of a wife.”
“So says you and every other woman who has read Pride and Prejudice this year,” he retorted. “My sisters cannot stop quoting that line to me. Although I will say that this is the first time I’ve heard that being in possession of all of my limbs is my finest quality.”
Octavia grinned. “Your hair and teeth are quite satisfactory as well.”
“Are you hosting a salon or running a stud farm?”
It was the kind of thing he never could have said to a lady. If Octavia were still the lady she had been four years before, she should have cut him after he said that. But she didn’t take offense. “There have been no marriages made at my salons, for rather obvious reasons,” she said drily. “Whether other liaisons have occurred is, of course, not something I shall comment upon.”
Her parties were notorious only because Octavia hosted them. From what Rafe had heard, most of the activities in her house could have occurred in any gentlewoman’s home, although the men were free to discuss politics without having to accommodate the conversations of the fairer sex.
If she had been a garden-variety courtesan, he might have considered buying her loyalty from Somerville. He had an inheritance in his own right from his mother’s estate, which had gone to him alone rather than his siblings — the old duke’s will, which controlled the assets he’d stripped from his wife when he had sent her into exile, had cut the younger children completely out of inheriting her properties. They were dependent on Thorington’s fortune, but Rafe could afford a reasonably lavish life if that was what he wanted. And he could afford to keep a courtesan, at least long enough to learn her secrets.
But Rafe had the instincts of a spy, and he knew what he was dealing with. Octavia was the loyal sort. She couldn’t be bought — not without far more money than Rafe was willing to spend on the enterprise.
That left him only a handful of options. He could attempt to win her friendship, and thus gain her confidence. That would take time — more time than he likely had. His superiors at Whitehall would eventually catch on if he courted Octavia. She had nothing to do with any of the foreign embassies. He should have taken a mistress from among the German or Austrian delegations if he was focused on what Whitehall had asked of him.
Or he could trick her into divulging Somerville’s secrets. But the sharp look in her eyes as she perused him said that she would rarely make such a mistake.
Or he could seduce her.
It was his tactic of last resort — he much preferred to buy information. But women made mistakes when they believed themselves to be in love. Octavia was fair game — she was experienced enough to know the rules, and any association with him wouldn’t ruin her. The only challenge would be extricating himself at the end. After all, he couldn’t pretend to die in battle to get away from her.
He would consider his options later. “I am impressed by your fine sentiments, Madame Octavia. Not many hostesses would miss the opportunity to spread gossip about their guests.”
“Gossip has its place. I make it a habit to know what happens beyond me. There is safety in information, as you no doubt know.”
She paused, but Rafe sensed the quality of that silence. He waited as she toyed with the stem of her champagne glass. His patience was eventually rewarded. “But no, Lord Rafael. I do not make it a practice to gossip about my guests. Political gossip, perhaps. But the usual topics of who has shared a bed with whom, and who is ruinously in debt, and who has destroyed her reputation — those on dits don’t appeal to me.”
There was a tightness around her mouth that didn’t disappear, even after she took another sip of champagne.
He felt a flash of sympathy for her. He could manage sympathy — he’d often felt it in Spain and never let it distract him. But there was something else under the sympathy. Something that, perhaps, felt like a bit of connection with her — with this ruined woman whose life had been destroyed by gossip, but who wouldn’t let the ton defeat her.
It made his mission harder, though. If she wouldn’t gossip about her guests, she would never gossip about Somerville. The chances that he could trick her into revealing anything were slim.
That only left seduction.
“You didn’t give me your truth and your lie,” he said.
The abrupt shift in conversation didn’t startle her. If anything, she looked relieved to leave the subject of gossip behind. “No, I did not,” she said. “Can I say that my truth is that I’d hoped you would forget?”
Rafe laughed. “You can say that, but it would be unsporting. I wouldn’t have thought you would turn away from a dare.”
“I never do.” She leaned back in her chair, indolent and entirely self-possessed. Her diamonds gleamed and her rich dress rustled around her, but it was her smile that looked dangerous — as though, for a moment, she was the one who sought knowledge, and he was the unwitting prey.
Was he considering seduction because it was the obvious next course of action for his mission? Or was it because he wanted it to be?
She tapped her chin, pretending to consider. “My life has no secrets, Lord Rafael. The gossip sheets print them all as soon as they happen. I’m sure you’ve seen the caricatures.”
Only years of training kept him from shifting uncomfortably at the unexpected mention of what he’d commissioned to be drawn about her — not that she knew he was the one who’d ordered them. “Humor me, Madame Octavia. There must be some secret I cannot guess.”
She thought for another few moments. He realized suddenly that he had stopped noticing the rest of the room. Usually he registered other sounds and sights around him — he was never entirely off guard. But Octavia had captured all of his attention.
And she could hold it. She leaned forward. He mirrored her, looking for all the world like they were engaged in the most intimate tête-à-tête.
“My truth and my lie, Lord Rafael, are simple. The first fact is that I am a courtesan because I wish to be, not only because I was ruined.”
If it were another unmarried lady, he might have doubted it. But Octavia belonged in this milieu — or, at least, her boldness and her straightforward gaze were more suited for this life, and not the muted, constrained prison of Mayfair’s more polite drawing rooms.
“And your lie?” he drawled.
“Are you so sure that my first ‘fact’ is true?” she asked, seeming disappointed.
He nodded. “But I would hear the alternative.”
She drained her champagne, then looked him dead in the eye. “The other fact is that I am utterly enamored with you.”
/> Chapter Two
“I beg your pardon?” Lord Rafael said.
Octavia didn’t know why she’d said it. She hadn’t been able to think of anything else for her lie. And she said it without blushing or hesitating — the way a courtesan would be expected to say it.
The fact that Octavia wasn’t the courtesan everyone thought her to be was a far more delicious — and unbelievable — secret. But that was Somerville’s secret as much as it was hers, and she’d take it to the grave.
She held his gaze for another few seconds, then leaned back in her chair again. Lord Rafael looked stunned. She gestured for a footman and asked for more champagne and brandy. Only after their glasses were filled did she say, “I am enamored, Lord Rafael. If I had known that you felt the same, I would have insisted on making your acquaintance months ago.”
It was all a lie, of course. Or, at least, more of a lie than the other fact she had given him. She hadn’t thought of their initial meeting in Hyde Park more than once every day or so. And she hadn’t specifically sought out gossip about him — although she had made note of everything she heard.
Octavia only knew him by reputation. Everyone knew that he drank far too much. But unlike most drunkards, he never embarrassed himself or lost at cards. He had been mentioned favorably several times in the dispatches from Spain, but he had abruptly returned to England and sold his commission the previous year. No one quite seemed to know how he occupied himself, or who his friends were, or why he was in London — and yet they all agreed that he was the most charming, friendly gentleman in their acquaintance.
Odd, to be known as friendly and yet not have any close friends. Her time with Somerville had trained her to pay attention to these details — to understand how the currents flowed through the ton, who moved with the waves and who was a rock that everyone else broke around. Knowledge, after all, was power. And power was something Octavia could no longer go without.
So when Lord Rafael had walked into Somerville’s drawing room as though he belonged there, despite never having accepted an invitation before, Octavia had resolved to find out why.