by Shana Galen
She looked at him now, moved by the sound in his voice when he spoke in French. But he was not looking at her. His eyes were far away, back in France, hearing his nanny tell him the stories.
"We heard terrible things," he continued, and Sarah did not think he realized he had reverted to speaking in French. "We heard things we couldn't believe—the Bastille stormed, innocent men and women killed in the streets, children murdered. We didn't believe it.
"The family protested when my father moved us to the country. Not I. I always did what was expected of me. But I sympathized when Bastien—it was always Bastien—complained. He loved Paris and found the country dull. Armand was happy anywhere he had books. He was so intelligent. He could talk his way out of any difficulty."
Sarah smiled, liking the image he painted of his younger brothers. Bastien, the recalcitrant child, and Armand, the brains of the family. It was obvious Julien had been—as he was now—the leader. The perfect heir to the title. She could see him, even as a little boy, playing the man.
"And then one night I awoke and saw flickering on my ceiling." He looked at her candle, seemed to watch it flicker. "I don't know what woke me, probably the noise, and when I looked out the window, I saw our courtyard was overrun by peasants carrying crude weapons."
He met her gaze now, his eyes cold and hard. "We weren't cruel to them. I know some landowners were. They took the peasant women for their own purposes. They overworked children. They put a heavy tax burden on their workers. My father was a fair man and a good man. We thought our peasants loved us."
He swallowed.
"They didn't."
***
How could he explain to her the sense of betrayal he had felt—that night and even more so later? Was there something he could have done to prevent the uprising? Something he did to provoke it?
He had never mentioned these feelings of guilt to his mother. He knew she would tell him he had done nothing wrong, and perhaps he hadn't. But he did not know how else to make sense of his shattered life.
Sarah was watching him as he told her about meeting his mother in the hall, rushing to the twins' rooms, and finally the sprint to safety. Her eyes were wide and so very brown in the candlelight. He didn't know if telling her his story, opening his past to her, would make her trust him, but it was the only thing he knew to do.
He had told this story only once before—to Marcus Stover. Rigby knew bits and pieces, but Marcus knew the whole. For some reason, it had been easier to tell Marcus.
"What did you do when you came to London?" she asked. "Did your mother's family take you in?"
"Yes. They were kind." He told her about living with his mother's people, the adjustment to life in England and schooling, and his relentless drive to restore his family fortune. Ne quittez pas.
"I made some good investments," he said, summing it up. "And now my mother never has to worry about money again."
She nodded, leaning forward. He thought she had probably forgotten they were in her bedroom and she was dressed in only her night shift. It was almost exactly as he had imagined it, though seeing her in it was not at all what he expected. The laces at her throat were tied tightly, but the more he talked, the more engrossed she became. The bedclothes had slipped down, and he could see the laces plunged between her breasts.
They were full, ripe breasts, if their shape under the linen was any indication. He could see the swell of one in the narrow gap between the laces. How his fingers itched to unfasten that knot and spread those laces apart. How he would enjoy slipping the gown off her shoulders and kissing every single part of her as he slowly exposed inch after inch of creamy flesh.
He swallowed. Such thoughts were out of the question. This was not some strumpet, and he would do best to remember that.
"I don't think that's the only reason you work so hard to make money," she said, and her voice snapped him out of his reverie.
"I suppose I like to be comfortable as well," he admitted.
"But that's not all. Your childhood security was splintered. You lost everything. It's only natural that you would want to make sure you could never lose everything again."
He shrugged. "Or perhaps I just enjoy business. I'm a duc without land, without an inheritance to oversee. I need something to keep myself occupied."
She nodded, looked thoughtful. "And you never knew what happened to your brothers? You think they're still alive?"
"I have no reason to believe otherwise." He could feel his defenses rising, but he tried to tamp them down.
"And your search for them is why you've traveled to France so frequently?"
"Yes."
"That's the only reason?"
He clenched his jaw. "Yes. I'm not selling state secrets. I just want answers."
"Have you found any?"
He gave her a long, hard look.
"Have your trips to France given you any reason to believe your brothers are still alive?"
When he still did not answer, she put a hand on his arm. "I'm not trying to disparage your search, but I need to give something to the Foreign Office. I need some proof that what you say is true."
He looked away from her and debated telling her about his plans to return to France. If he told her, would she alert the Foreign Office? Would she interfere with his plans?
"I have a letter," he began cautiously. "It's from one of the Valère servants. He says he has information that my brother Armand is alive."
She was nodding quickly now, excitedly. "That's the one I was copying in your library. But from what I understood, the servant won't tell you any particulars. He wants you to—" She glanced up at him, her eyes huge. "Oh, no."
He nodded. "I'm going back."
She shook her head. "You can't do that right now. The Foreign Office is watching you. They're watching me watch you." She threw off the bedclothes and knelt before him. "If you try to leave now, you'll be caught for certain."
"Not if you help me."
She shook her head. "How can I help you? I don't even know if I believe you."
Frustrated, he took her shoulders. "What else do I have to do? What do I have to say to make you believe me? You've heard my story; you've seen the letter. I have other documents you can see, correspondence, but nothing as convincing as the letter you have seen."
She was staring at him, her face close to his, her breathing rapid.
"I need you, Sarah. If the Foreign Office realizes I've left…"
"Alright," she snapped, jerking out of his arms. "I'll help you, but you have to be completely honest with me. I want no secrets."
He knew when his back was against the wall. "Fine. You've seen the letter. What else do you want to know?"
She thought for a moment, her head turned slightly away from him as she stared vacantly at a watercolor across the room. His eyes traced the curve of her chin and the sweep of her eyelashes. "How will you travel to France?" she said finally, turning back to him. "You can't exactly book passage."
He paused, his stomach knotting with uncertainty. If he told her the truth, she could ruin everything. But if he lied…
"Stover knows a privateer—a smuggler—who's still willing to make the passage. I haven't been able to contact the man yet, but that should change tomorrow night."
"What happens tomorrow night?"
"That doesn't concern you." He rose. "What I need—"
"—is my support," she finished for him. "You want me to vouch for you? Then you have to prove you speak the truth." She climbed out of bed, and he caught a flash of one ankle and calf.
"I will—when I arrive home with my brother."
She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "And what am I to tell the Foreign Office in the meantime? What if they discover you've left England? I need some proof to hold them off until you return."
He clenched his fists. He had a pretty good idea what this proof she spoke of was going to be. "What proof?" he ground out.
"I want to go with you and Mr. Stover tom
orrow night."
"No. Out of the question. It's not safe for a woman."
She glowered at him. "That's a risk I'm willing to take."
"Not I."
"Very well, then I'll tell Lord Northrop I've been compromised. He'll have to send in someone else or arrest you."
He stared at her, saw the determination in her eyes. Damn it! He couldn't be arrested. Not now. Not when he was so close to finding Armand. Even more of a concern was Sarah. What would happen to her if she admitted she had failed? Would this Sir Northrop really throw her out on the streets?
He could not allow that to happen. And he was angry that he cared so much, that he felt this need to protect her.
She had turned away from him and was climbing back into bed, but he grabbed her arm and spun her around. "You want to come tomorrow night?"
Eyes wide, she nodded.
"Petite sotte." Little fool. He took her by the shoulders and looked directly into her eyes. "Don't you care anything for your safety? This won't be a day at church. This could be dangerous."
"You'll take care of me."
He stared at her, shocked by her response. "Why the hell do you say that?"
"Because you see it as your duty."
He flinched, not wanting to admit she was correct. Devil take it! He did not want to take her into danger, but he could not leave her behind either. The woman was damn exasperating.
Damn attractive too. His mind might have been debating whether or not he could leave her behind, but his body was all too aware that they were alone, in her bedroom, and he was holding her in his arms.
She pulled back, eyeing him warily. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
He slid his hand behind her back, pulling her closer. "You're right that I'll have to protect you, chérie. I can't have my fiancée accosted."
She put her hands on his chest to hold him at a distance. "I'm not your fiancée. You're engaged to Serafina."
"You're Serafina."
"No, I'm not. I'm—"
He lowered his mouth to hers, cutting off her protest. At first she resisted, her hands pushing him back, but gradually she melted into him, her arms wrapping around his neck.
He liked the feel of her in his arms, liked the way her body trembled and her breath hitched. He slanted his mouth over hers, deepening the kiss, tangling his hands in her hair and cradling her head.
Gently breaking the kiss, he brushed lips against her cheek, her eyelids, her chin. He dipped to her neck, sorely tempted by that knotted fabric at her throat. One tug with his teeth, and he could loosen the laces, kiss her bare flesh, plunge a hand inside.
He looked up and saw that Sarah's eyes were closed, her cheeks flushed, her head fallen back.
She trusted him completely.
With a deep breath, he moved back and slowly released her. Her eyes fluttered open in surprise.
"Meet me in the library at nine tomorrow night. I'll come up with an excuse for my mother. You hold off the Foreign Office."
She nodded.
"Can you meet with them tomorrow?"
"I'll try."
"Good. I need time, and I need you to get it for me."
And then against his every bodily instinct, he turned and walked away from her.
Fifteen
Sarah was starving by the time nine o' clock arrived. She had been too edgy all day to even think of food, but at least her skills at lying were improving.
First, she had to lie to the duchesse. She told Rowena that she wanted to go shopping. The duchesse offered to go along, of course, and Sarah spent the entire morning walking along Bond Street, driving through Hyde Park, entertaining the duchesse and, at the same time, attempting to be seen and contacted by The Widow or Sir Northrop.
After four hours, the duchesse begged off, and Sarah took a footman to Gunther's on the pretense of buying a flavored ice.
She had just given up on meeting with the Foreign Office and ordered a strawberry ice, when she heard a familiar voice in her ear. "You had better have something for me."
Ice in hand, Sarah whirled to see Sir Northrop frowning at her. She took a deep breath. Each time she saw him, he seemed more impatient and angrier. She needed him to believe her lies.
Sir Northrop pulled her aside. Gunther's was not crowded, and it was easy to whisper in a corner without being overheard. "Did you acquire the key?"
"Yes." That was an easy question and required no lying whatsoever.
"Did you use it?"
"Yes." Another easy question. Buoyed by her success, Sarah ate a small spoonful of the ice. "I was able to open the hidden drawer in Valère's desk."
"What did you find?"
"A large cache of correspondence." This was not exactly true, but she had found that one letter. Her hand was cold, and she set the ice aside. "Unfortunately, I wasn't able to read much of it." Deep breath.
"Why not?"
"Valère came in."
Sir Northrop gripped her arm savagely. "Did he discover you?"
Sarah winced and tried to free her arm from his punishing grip. This lie was the most difficult. "No." She swallowed. "I managed to escape into the parlor without him realizing anything was amiss."
Sir Northrop frowned. The story was vague and implausible, and Sarah knew it. But she was too nervous to be able to remember any of the details she had fabricated while lying in bed last night.
If she had fabricated any details. It seemed she lay there thinking of Valère's kiss for most of the night.
"Did you manage to read anything?"
She nodded. "A little. Something about someone called Armand." She watched him closely now, wondering how much Sir Northrop already knew. If Valère had lied about his brother, Sir Northrop might not know of him. If Valère told the truth, the Foreign Office—if they were any good at their work—should know something about this lost sibling.
"The duc's brother." Sir Northrop nodded, his eyes narrowing. "So he's still looking for him." Sir Northrop made the statement almost to himself, and Sarah felt her heart speed up. Valère had spoken the truth!
"Do you know where he is?" she asked.
Sir Northrop gave her a long look. "Somewhere Valère will never find him."
She thought that was all he would say, and her heart sank. But then he smiled, looked almost cocky. "Locked in the attic."
"Where?"
Sir Northrop waved away her question. "It need not concern you. Do you still have Valère's key?"
Sarah wavered for a moment, and then decided to tell the truth. "No. But I know I can get it," she added hastily. "Now that I'm Valère's fiancée, I have more freedom within the house."
"When will you have it again? I need those documents. My other sources are telling me that Valère is planning another trip to France. He's made inquiries. This time I intend to catch him."
Sarah blanched and gripped the back of a chair to steady herself. He knew about Valère's plans to return to Paris.
"When can you have the documents?"
When she did not answer, he twisted her arm, causing her to cry out in pain. "If you can't do this, say so now. I'm running out of time."
"I can do it," Sarah said through the pain. "But why are you in such a hurry? If I just had more time—"
"We're out of time! Do not fail me or—" He pressed his lips together, forming a razor-thin line.
Sarah swallowed. "You'll do to me what you did to The Widow?"
He grinned at her, slow and evil. "What do you know about our friend?"
"I know I have not seen her. I know she was frightened of you."
He nodded, satisfaction on his face. "You should be frightened too. My back is to the wall. I have nothing to lose by killing you."
Sarah inhaled sharply, fear stabbing through her. "Is that what happened to The Widow?"
"Worry about what might happen to you." Sarah's blood ran cold as he gave her a look that said he meant every word. "I'll look for you at Mrs. Southwick's musicale."
"Mrs.
Southwick's musicale?" Sarah frowned. She had not realized she had anything but Valère's mysterious appointment on her calendar. They had told the duchesse they were going to Vauxhall Gardens.
"You had better be there."
"Of course."
"Eat your ice before it melts." He handed the treat back to Sarah, who took it. She dug in her spoon and pretended to eat, but when Sir Northrop was gone, she had to struggle not to gag.