by Shana Galen
Perhaps Valère would take this time to speak with her, to prove he was not a traitor after all. She wanted to believe that. She already did believe him innocent.
And that bias was certainly a problem.
What if she was wrong, and he was a traitor? Did she know better than the Foreign Office?
She could not trust Valère. Not yet.
And she certainly could not trust herself. Valère's kisses at the ball had exposed her feelings for what they were: she was half in love with him. No matter that he had no idea who she really was. No matter that he might very well be a traitor to her country and her king.
He was a man of honor and principle. He had wasted no time offering her his hand in marriage when even the slightest slur had been leveled against her reputation. He had danced with her, even after she had stepped on his feet half a dozen times. He had acted as a chaperone, making certain no one, not even his friend Rigby, took advantage of her.
And he had done all this after she flatly turned down his first marriage proposal. That must have been a hard blow for a man with pride. And yet, he put his own discomfort aside and did his duty.
What woman could resist a man like that? Especially if he was tall and strong and handsome?
A better woman than she.
Valère swept into the vestibule, looking even more handsome than her imaginings. He wore a dark blue double-breasted coat, buff pantaloons, and polished black boots. His white linen shirt and cravat were simple, ideal to set off the hard lines of his freshly shaved jaw. And that was not the only concession he had made to his appearance this morning.
His normally unruly black hair was pulled back into a queue, fastened at the base of his neck. She stared at him, wondering how he managed all of this in just a matter of minutes.
He grinned at her. "Ready?"
He escorted her to the carriage, helped her up, and climbed in after her. He sat across from her, facing backward, while she took the choicer seat. He had already given the coachman the direction, so they both settled back as the coach began to move.
"You didn't have to come with me," she said after a long moment of silence.
"Didn't I?" He was staring out the window, and he did not turn to look at her.
"No, you didn't. I wasn't aware that you were particularly religious."
His gaze met hers. "I wasn't aware that you were. You're obviously not Catholic."
"Reverend Collier came every week to the Academy, and I faithfully attended services."
"What's the Academy?"
"The Ladies Benevolent Society Academy for Young Girls. It was where I grew up and was trained to be a governess."
He sat back and stared at her. "God's blood. You really are a governess, aren't you?"
She frowned at him. "Should you really blaspheme when we're on our way to church?"
He grinned. "Sorry. I didn't realize you were serious about this. I thought—" He waved a hand as though dismissing the thought.
"You thought?" she prompted.
He shrugged. "I thought this was a ploy to get out of the house, to meet with the Foreign Office."
"It's not. In fact, I pray that Sir Northrop isn't present. However, as we are alone at the moment, perhaps we could have that talk you promised me last night."
"Worried I'm going to surprise you in your bed?"
"No," she said indignantly.
"Did you sleep at all last night?"
"I slept very well, thank you."
He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. "You're a horrible liar, Sarah Smith. Is that really your name?"
"Yes."
"And what do your parents think of your working for the Foreign Office? Do they know?"
She looked down at her gloved hands. She was twirling the handles of her reticule around and around her fingers. "I don't have parents. The Ladies Benevolent Society Academy for Young Girls is an orphanage."
He did not speak, and she chanced a quick peek at him. "I didn't think. I'm sorry."
"It's nothing." But she could feel her cheeks heating, could feel the sting of unshed tears behind her eyes. He had probably already surmised her story. Left on the Academy's doorstep. Unwanted. Unloved. The daughter of a loose woman or worse.
"We're here," Valère said a moment later. He jumped down when the coachman opened the door, then assisted her down the stairs. Services had not yet begun, but the bells were pealing, and the ton was making its way inside via the columned portico.
Sarah had thought the theater was a showplace, but apparently church was as much so. The simple muted lavender gown and white cap she had chosen made her severely underdressed in the wake of ruffles, flounces, plumes, and sparkling gems.
No wonder Valère had shaved and dressed. Not that he had taken any special care for the balls or theaters they attended.
She glanced at him curiously and found him watching her, his look unreadable. And then he took her arm, placed it in his, and led her into the church.
***
Julien had rarely attended church. It wasn't because being a Catholic put him at a severe social and political disadvantage. The disadvantages were not such that he cared to convert. And it wasn't that he minded the fashion show put on by the beau monde. He was used to that.
But he did mind having to think too much about God. This God, whom the rector called compassionate and merciful, did not seem so to Julien. Where had God been when the peasants had attacked his chateau? Where had God been when his father had been dragged away, beaten, imprisoned, and then guillotined? He was an innocent man as were many who had been put to death by the mobs. Was God in the blood that ran through the streets of Paris?
Was God here now, in the church in London?
He looked at Sarah and thought perhaps He was. So far, Julien had seen no sign that she was attempting to communicate with anyone from the Foreign Office. She was simply singing and praying and now listening to the rector's sermon.
She had, apparently, actually wanted to come to worship. The more Julien thought about that and thought about her, the more confused he became.
He had not believed her story about being a governess. He had not believed that Sarah Smith was her real name. It was too common—the perfect name for someone who was concealing their own identity.
Or the name of an orphan.
But could he believe that story?
He was afraid he could, and that changed everything. After he had left her the night before, he planned to wait until this morning, tell his mother who Serafina really was, and order her out. He doubted her story about the Foreign Office. The government of England was inept, but not so inept as to engage someone like Sarah in a scheme like this one.
She had to be lying, which meant this was probably some elaborate dupe intended to take him for as much as possible. Sir Northrop and The Widow were most likely her accomplices. This sort of thing was far too common in England, though the perpetrators were bold indeed to attempt such a ruse on someone of his rank and with his resources.
But sitting beside Sarah at church, Julien could almost believe her orphan-to-governess-to-spy story. And if she was telling the truth, he was in serious jeopardy. The government did not need real proof to convict a traitor. They could fabricate it, and paying witnesses to testify at the Old Bailey was all too common.
As a duke, he should be exempt from such treatment, but he was not a peer of England. His title was French and had been obliterated by the revolution. He had few rights under English law, and none of those afforded the peerage.
Which meant he needed Sarah. He needed her to convince the Foreign Office he was not a spy.
They were going to have a long talk tonight.
The service ended, and Julien was forced to stay and speak with several of his acquaintances. He was not surprised that word of his engagement had spread quickly, and he was heartily congratulated all around.
Then, to his surprise, Marcus Stover was at his side. "Didn't expect to see you here."
Julien shrugged. "I'm full of surprises lately."
"I hear congratulations are in order." Stover clapped him on the back. "I'm happy for you." He glanced at the small groups surrounding the new couple and lowered his voice. "Can we speak in private a moment?"
Julien stole a glance at Sarah, who was nodding and listening faithfully to the Dowager Marchioness of Heathstone, then followed his friend into an alcove. "What is it?"
"Have you had any success contacting the person we spoke of?"
Julien knew immediately that Marcus was referring to the smuggler who might be willing to transport Julien to France. "Not yet. I've sent notes, but my messengers have been unable to locate him. Is he still in London?"
"He's in Town, and I know where he'll be tomorrow night."
Julien's blood was pumping now. Things were beginning to come together. "What time?"
"Meet me outside Covent Garden at ten."
Julien raised a brow. "We're going to the theater?"
"You may wish we were. Come armed."
"Your Grace?" Somehow Sarah had escaped the dowager and was coming toward him. "Mr. Stover." She smiled and came to stand beside Julien. Without thinking, he gave her his arm.
She took it, still smiling at Marcus. "How are you, sir?"
"Very well, my lady. Congratulations on your engagement. I'm sure you'll make Valère a happy man."
She gave Julien a rueful glance then said, "I hope so."
Julien escorted her back to the carriage and directed the coachman to take them home. Sarah was silent, and that suited him. He had much to do before departing for France, and he might need to be ready on a moment's notice.
"Your Grace?"
Julien looked away from the window. Sarah sat across from him, her gloved hands knotted in the lap of her muted purple gown. "What is it?"
"I was just thinking that now might be a good time for us to finish the discussion we began last night. We're alone, and no one can overhear."
"You did, did you?" She was probably right, but they were too close to home now to begin a discussion.
"It seemed appropriate."
He leaned back. "Don't worry, Sarah. We'll have
our talk."
She clenched her hands again. "When?"
He grinned. "Leave that to me."
She sighed heavily and looked out the window. "That's what I was afraid of."
Fourteen
Sarah was not asleep when her bedroom door opened. She had been in bed for almost two hours, and she had not so much as closed her eyes. All day she waited for Valère to make an effort to pull her aside, speak to her alone. But he seemed content to work in his library, not even emerging for dinner.
Sarah had been immensely annoyed. If he were going to stay in his library all day, why not think of some pretense to call her in?
The duchesse must have sensed her annoyance, because she made excuse after excuse. "Julien has always worked far too hard, my dear. Perhaps when you are married, you will be able to encourage him to take more time for himself."
Sarah doubted it. She wouldn't be marrying Valère, and it taxed her already thin patience to pretend she was. But the duchesse was obviously overjoyed with the engagement. She was busy writing letters to Serafina's mother—letters Delphine Artois, long dead in her grave, would never receive—discussing the trousseau and attempting to determine the best date for the nuptials.
"We don't want it to be too soon," the duchesse said, consulting her calendar. "I need time to make all of the arrangements. Can you bear to wait four months?"
Sarah gaped at her. The prospect of spending four months pretending to be Serafina was like a prison sentence.
"Three months, then," the duchesse added quickly. "Can you bear it?"
"Of course," Sarah answered cheerfully. After all, she would not have to play this role much longer, no matter what the duchesse planned.
But as much as the preparations vexed Sarah, there was some joy in them as well. She would probably never have the opportunity to plan her own wedding, and the more time she spent with the duchesse, the more the woman became like a mother to her.
In Sarah's own phantom memories of her mother, her mother's shadowy face was at times replaced by Rowena's.
At eleven, Sarah finally decided that Valère was not going to deign to come out of his library, so she excused herself from the talk of wedding preparations and went to bed.
She told Katarina to lay out the most modest night shift she owned, but the girl had either not understood, or Serafina only owned one night shift, because the girl had put out the same one she always wore.
Sarah had dismissed the girl and then put it on. She wondered how Valère knew it had lace at the throat and laces down the front—laces that tapered into a vee at the valley of her breasts.
She laced the gown tightly, put her robe on over it, and climbed into bed. After about an hour, the robe was stifling her, but she kept it on for another thirty minutes. Finally, she decided Valère was not coming, discarded the robe at the foot of her bed, and tried to sleep.
She only succeeded in tossing and turning so much that the bed clothes were in hopeless disarray. She had her eyes open and was counting sheep—number three hundred and seventy-six—when the door opened and Valère entered.
At least she hoped it was Valère. Her eyes darted to the entry, and she watched the large form quietly close the door and then move toward the bed. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she squeaked, "Your Grace?"
"Damn it," he muttered. "I told you to call me Julien."
She scrambled to a sitting position, pulling the bed clothes to her chin. "I don't think that's wise, Your Grace. Your presence here is already most inappropriate."
She thought she heard him chuckle; then a match near the fire flared, and the candle beside her bed flickered to life.
He was standing about two feet away, hands on his hips, wearing a linen shirt and buff breeches. He had removed the boots, probably so he could move about quietly, and she could see his white stockings. She could also see a good deal of his bronze chest. The buttons at his throat were open, and he was not wearing a cravat.
"Would you care to go to my room?" he asked casually. "Would that be more appropriate, Miss Smith?"
"Might we consider the library?"
"We might, but I'm already here."
She bit her lip, desperate to get him out of her room. She was lying in bed in nothing but her night rail. It was heavy and plain, to be sure, but she should not be in bed in his presence. "What will the servants think if they see you coming or going?"
His eyes glittered like sapphires. "I think you already know the answer to that question."
"Your Grace!"
"Julien." He took a seat at the foot of the bed, his weight causing her robe to slide off. Drat!
"The only servant I'm concerned about is your maid, but I have it on good authority that she has a closet on the upper floor."
"You asked?" Sarah hissed. "The servants will wonder why you asked."
Valère looked unconcerned. "I can be discreet, although apparently not discreet enough to keep my travels to France from the notice of the Foreign Office. Can you tell me when they began to suspect I was a traitor?"
"No. I don't know, and I wouldn't tell you if I did."
"Because you don't trust me."
She looked away, glad to look anywhere but at that bronze chest and his form sitting on her bed.
"What about all that talk last night of trying to help me?"
"I do want to help you, but I won't betray my country to do so."
"How can I make you trust me?" he asked, looking more serious now.
When she did not answer, he moved closer, his hand reaching out to smooth a stray hair away from her cheek. Her breath hitched, and she leaned away from his touch.
He was quiet for a long minute, and then he began speaking in a low voice. "I was thirteen when the peasants came. I was thirteen and the oldest of th
ree sons. My twin brothers, Bastien and Armand, were just eleven. We'd been in Paris for several months, and we didn't understand why my father suddenly wanted us to move back to the country. We'd heard about the riots, but there were always riots in Paris.
"That time we heard even more disturbing rumors. My parents would not discuss them with us, of course, but some of the servants would. Our nanny told us that the crowds were screaming, Mort à l'aristocratie!"