An Affair with a Spare (The Survivors)

by Shana Galen

  “Where are you, Mr. Beaumont?”

  Rafe tried to place the woman’s voice. He thought she might be the wife of Lord Chesterton. She was young, far too young for Chesterton, who was his father’s contemporary. Rafe might think Chesterton a fool for marrying a woman young enough to be his daughter, but that didn’t mean he wanted to cuckold the man.

  “There you are!” she said, just as the light from a candle illuminated the cloakroom.

  Rafe squinted and held up a hand, even as he realized the small, crowded room offered no opportunity for escape.

  “You found me,” he said, giving her a forced smile. “Now it is your turn to hide. I shall count to one hundred.”

  “Oh, no!” She moved closer, her skirts brushing against his legs. “I found you, and I want to claim my prize.”

  “Your prize?” he asked in mock surprise. He knew exactly what she wanted for a prize. “What might that be? A waltz at midnight? A kiss on the hand?” He moved closer to her, forcing her backward.

  She bumped against the wall of the room, and he put a hand out to brace himself while he gazed down at her.

  “I’d like a kiss,” she said breathlessly as she looked up at him. “But somewhere far more interesting than my hand.”

  “More interesting, you say?” He leaned close to her, tracing his free hand along her jaw and down the length of her neck. “Close your eyes, then, and I will kiss you.” His fingers traced the swell of her breasts, and with a quick intake of breath, she closed her eyes. Rafe blew out the candle, plunging them both into darkness. He leaned forward, brushed his lips across her cheek, and then bolted.

  As he slipped into the servants’ stairway, he heard her call after him. “Rafe! Play fair.”

  “Never,” he murmured and climbed the steps with deliberate motions. Perhaps he could use the servants’ corridors to find another staircase that would lead him out of the hall. He reached a landing, turned a corner, and Lady Willowridge smiled down at him, the plume in her turban shaking with her excitement.

  “Looking for someone?” she asked in her smoky voice.

  Rafe took her hand and kissed it. “You, my lady. Always you.”

  She was the last person he wanted to see. She was a widow and had claws as sharp as any tiger. Once she sank her nails into him, she would not let go.

  When he lifted his hand, she yanked him toward her. She was uncommonly strong for a woman, he thought as he attempted not to stomp on her slippered feet. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and tilting her head back so he could feel the diamonds in her coiffure against his hands, she offered her mouth.

  Rafe rolled his eyes. He could simply kiss her, but he’d been in this position before, and she’d tasted like tobacco and stale coffee. Why not give her a little thrill and give himself a reprieve?

  Rafe slid his arms along hers, lifted her hands over his head, and spun her around. She gave a little squeak when he pressed her against the wall, pushing his own body against hers and leaning down to whisper in her ear, “Do you want to play a little game, my lady?”

  She tried to nod, but her cheek was plastered to the wall. “Oh, yes,” she said, her breath coming fast.

  “Do you feel my hand here?” He touched the small of her back.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Close your eyes and imagine where I will touch you next.” His hand slid over her buttocks.

  She closed her eyes.

  Rafe stepped back. “No peeking.”

  And he took the rest of the stairs two at a time and burst into the servants’ corridor. A footman carrying a tray of wineglasses raised his brows, but Rafe wasted no time on explanations. “Where is the exit?”

  “To the ballroom, sir?”

  “Dear God, man. No!” Rafe looked over his shoulder to make sure Lady Willowridge had not come for him yet. “To the street. Preferably a back alley.”

  “You just came from that exit, sir.”

  “There must be another.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Rafe Beaumont!” He heard Lady Willowridge’s footfalls on the staircase. Panicked, he grabbed the servant’s coat.

  “Ballroom! Quickly!”

  “Through there.”

  Rafe pushed on the panel and stumbled into the assembly rooms, where an orchestra was playing a waltz. Men and women twirled under the lights of the crystal chandeliers while the tinkling of laughter and champagne glasses accompanied the music.

  A girl seated against the wall next to the panel gasped. “Mr. Beaumont!”

  Rafe looked at the wallflower and then at the door he’d come through. It would not be long before Lady Willowridge deduced where he had gone.

  “Dance?” he asked the wallflower.

  She blushed prettily, then gave him her hand. He led her onto the floor and proceeded to turn her about in time to the music. After a minute or two, Rafe let out a sigh of relief. Why had he not thought of dancing with wallflowers before? They were unmarried and therefore relatively safe, not to mention he enjoyed dancing. He could dance all night. He could dance with every wallflower in atten—

  Rafe’s eyes widened and he met the wallflower’s gaze directly. “Miss…uh?”

  “Vincent,” she answered sweetly. “Miss Caroline Vincent.”

  “Miss Vincent, your hand has apparently wandered to my…er, backside.”

  She smiled prettily. “I know. It is wonderfully round and firm.”

  Christ, he was doomed. If her father did not kill him, one of the ladies he’d abandoned—he spotted both Lady Willowridge and Lady Chesterton scowling at him—would. Rafe danced toward Phineas, catching his eye and giving him a pleading look. Phineas merely glared back at him, his expression clear: You wanted this ball.

  What had he been thinking?

  Miss Vincent squeezed his arse, and he nearly yelped.

  “Would you prefer to find somewhere more private?” she asked, fluttering her lashes.

  Rafe was always surprised at how many women actually fluttered their lashes and thought they looked appealing. To him, it always looked as if they had something stuck in their eyes.

  “No,” he answered.

  Dear God, would this waltz never end?

  Just then, he spotted Lieutenant Colonel Draven. Draven never came to these sorts of affairs. He’d probably come tonight because three members of his troop were in attendance. He spotted Rafe and gave a grudging nod of understanding when he spotted Rafe’s predicament. Rafe gave his former commanding officer a look of entreaty as he turned Miss Vincent one last time and separated from her as the music ended. He bowed, prepared to promenade her about the room. He might take bets on who would kill him first—her furious father, the irritated Lady Willowridge, the abandoned Lady Chesterton, or the icy Mrs. Howe. He’d forgotten that he’d left her in the supper room.

  “Excuse me, miss. I do not mean to interrupt, but I must claim Mr. Beaumont for just a moment.” Draven put a hand on Rafe’s shoulder and pulled him away from Miss Vincent. Draven didn’t wait for her response. His word was an order and always had been.

  Draven led Rafe away, and Rafe tried to walk as though he had not a care in the world instead of running for his life. Draven steered Rafe through the assembly rooms, past numerous ladies who would have stopped him if Draven hadn’t looked so formidable. The lieutenant colonel led Rafe down the stairs, past a row of liveried footman, out the door, and into a waiting hackney.

  Once they were under way, Rafe leaned his head against the back of the seat. “That was too close.”

  Across from him, Draven shook his head. “Lieutenant Beaumont—”

  “Shh!” Rafe sat straight. “Don’t start bandying about titles. Do you want someone to hear?”

  Draven stared at him. “Mr. Beaumont, I can see your popularity has been something of a…mixed blessing. Why do you not simply tell t
he ladies you are not interested?”

  “I try,” Rafe said, settling back again. “But it always comes out all wrong. Not to mention, females tend to water when I reject them, and I hate to see a woman put a finger in the eye.”

  “You don’t mind if a woman cries, as long as you don’t witness it.”

  Rafe frowned. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. Do you think I’ve left a trail of weeping women?”

  Draven barked out a laugh. “No. I think most women know what you are.”

  Rafe straightened. “And what is that?”

  “A man who flees even from the word ‘matrimony.’”

  “Not true. I attended Mostyn’s wedding.”

  “And I seem to recall a greenish tint about your gills the entire time.” He held up a hand to stay Rafe’s protest. “But I didn’t come to discuss marriage. I have an assignment for you.”

  A sensation much like a mild bolt of lightning flashed through Rafe. “For me?”

  “Yes.”

  Rafe could not believe his good fortune. Finally! His chance. “But the war is over.”

  “There are still dangerous people about, and the Foreign Office asked if I knew anyone who could take this assignment.”

  “And you thought of me?” Rafe cleared his throat. “I mean to say, of course I came to mind directly.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “Yes.”

  Rafe blinked. He hadn’t been expecting Draven to answer in the affirmative. Neil had rarely given him dangerous assignments during the war. Although Rafe had argued once or twice that slipping in and out of the bedchamber of one of Napoleon’s men, persuading his wife or mistress to reveal secrets, and slipping back out again without being caught was not without peril, it was not quite the same thing as running across a field while cannonballs exploded around you.

  “Good.” Rafe clapped his hands together. “I have been wanting something to do besides chasing after women and attending social outings. What is it you need me to do?”

  Draven smiled. “Attend social events and chase after a woman.”

  Rafe sighed and sat back again. “And if I refuse to accept the assignment?”

  “I don’t recall asking for your acceptance.”

  “You’re no longer my commanding officer.”

  Draven crossed his arms over his chest. “Would you like me to change that?”

  “No.” Rafe knew as well as anyone Draven had connections in the highest spheres. One word to the Regent and Rafe might be back in uniform patrolling the Canadian frontier. “Tell me about my new assignment.”

  Draven sat back. “Her name is Collette Fortier.”

  “Fortier? Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “Because her father was one of Napoleon’s most successful assassins.”

  “And? If I remember correctly, Fortier is dead.”

  “Yes.” The hackney slowed and Draven peered out the window. “I want you to find out more about his daughter.”

  “How am I to do that?”

  “We believe Collette Fortier is in London. We further believe she may be calling herself Collette Fournay and claiming to be a cousin of Lady Ravensgate.”

  “Suspected French sympathizer and dear friend of Marie Antoinette’s daughter.”

  “You are acquainted with Lady Ravensgate?”

  “Not personally, but I’ve heard rumors. Is Lady Ravensgate taking Mademoiselle Fortier out in public?”

  “I danced with the woman in question not a quarter hour ago, a woman Lady Ravensgate introduced as her cousin, a Miss Fournay. Your mission is to ascertain whether Miss Fournay is, in actuality, Collette Fortier, and if it is she, what she is doing in London. If she’s spying—and I think from my encounter this evening that there is a very good chance of that—discover what information she hopes to unearth and determine what she knows already.”

  “And then?”

  “And then you kill her.”

  Two

  He was here.

  She hadn’t been able to help looking for him the moment she entered the drawing room. She would have chastised herself, but she did not think there was a woman alive who would not stare at Mr. Beaumont. He was simply the most stunning man she had ever seen. Not even the opulent room with its moldings and medallions, its porcelain and purfled vases could detract from the beauty of Beaumont.

  “Miss Fournay.”

  Collette dragged her eyes away from Beaumont and smiled at her hostess for the evening, Mrs. Saxenby. “How kind of you to come to our little salon.”

  Collette curtsied. “Thank you for extending the invitation to include me.”

  “You will not be disappointed,” Lady Ravensgate announced. “My dear cousin is quite enchanting, although I fear she may not be able to add much to the conversation tonight.” Lady Ravensgate gave Collette a meaningful look. “She is a cousin from France and does not know much about English politics.”

  “Oh, that is quite all right,” Mrs. Saxenby declared. “We cannot all hold the floor. Someone must act as the audience.”

  Collette smiled. She was quite content to act as the audience. She had always been somewhat shy and averse to attention, and these traits were valuable considering one of the best ways to gather information was to sit back and listen. Tonight, she hoped to find out more about Lieutenant Colonel Draven. Since the ball where they’d danced, she had not seen or heard any news about Draven. But Draven’s secretary in the Foreign Office, a Mr. Palmer, was supposed to frequent Mrs. Saxenby’s salons.

  In the three months since she’d landed on the coast of England, in the dark of night and in secret, Collette had made her way to London and sought out Lady Ravensgate, a wealthy widow. She’d been told the widow had been friends with her father, and Lady Ravensgate had certainly treated her like a long-lost daughter. Collette even remembered her father mentioning the late Lord Ravensgate as a man who would help them if they ever needed to escape Napoleon’s France. But so many people had dual loyalties that Collette had learned not to trust. And if the Ravensgates were so loyal, why had her father not fled when the Bourbons had retaken the throne? He must have known, under the king, he would suffer and be imprisoned for his work for the upstart Bonaparte. Had her father thought the Bourbons would forgive all, or did her father not trust Lady Ravensgate as he had her husband?

  She wished she could ask him, but he was imprisoned in Paris, and the only way to free him was to bargain with the royalists. That was why she needed the British codes.

  “Won’t you have a seat?” Mrs. Saxenby led Collette and Lady Ravensgate to a couch off to the side of the main grouping. In the center of the room, several men in crisp evening dress stood discussing a poem Collette had not read. Collette looked down, pretending to study her reticule’s drawstring while she listened. These few moments before the formal discussion began were the best time to glean information, if there was any here to be gleaned, which she rather doubted. Once the program commenced, most of the conversation would stick to that topic.

  It was the ideal time for a spy in London. The Season was at an end and most of the key political figures were in the country. But Britain’s security was always at risk, and men like Draven and others at the Foreign Office were still in London.

  Collette fingered her drawstring, listened to the voices around her, not hearing anything of substance, and then lifted her head and scanned the room. Her gaze landed on Mr. Beaumont. But then she’d been looking for him, hadn’t she?

  As usual, he was surrounded by a wall of women. No fewer than five vied for his attention tonight, and he seemed to entertain them effortlessly. The ladies tittered every few moments. If only she had a reason to believe Beaumont would say something of interest, she might join those women. But Lady Ravensgate had instructed her to pay close attention to William Thorpe, a writer an
d political satirist, and it just so happened that Thorpe was in conversation with James Palmer, Draven’s secretary. Neither man was half as attractive as Mr. Beaumont, but Collette brought her attention back to them nonetheless. Palmer had a snooty attitude and round spectacles he liked to remove and polish as he spoke. Thorpe was thin and looked hungry as he listened to Palmer discuss poetry.

  “Would you like some wine or lemon water, dear cousin?” Lady Ravensgate asked solicitously.

  “Wine, thank you,” Collette replied. Her sponsor rose and made her way around the room on the pretense of fetching refreshments for herself and her cousin. In reality, she was listening and collecting as much useful information as she could. But why? Did she have her own agenda or could Collette believe all her efforts were in sacrifice to her father?

  Palmer and Thorpe continued to discuss the poem, and Collette found her gaze once again straying to Mr. Beaumont. What was the matter with her? She needn’t pay him any attention. His presence here didn’t signify. She’d had a fleeting moment of worry after he’d been at the last two events she’d attended, but Lady Ravensgate had dismissed her concern. Beaumont was a gallant who went wherever pretty women might be. His intellect, if he had any, was focused on persuading women to join him in bed. He was a former soldier and a war hero, but since returning from the war, his life had been given over to debauchery.

  “Not someone you should associate with, my dear,” Lady Ravensgate had warned. Collette detested Lady Ravensgate’s insistence on calling her cousin and dear even when the two of them were in private.

  “But do you not think it odd that he is at the same events we have attended?”

  “No. With so few social events in London this time of year, everyone is at the same events.” Lady Ravensgate had narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re half in love with him too?”

  “No!” Collette had answered far too quickly.

  “Good. Because he isn’t chasing after you. Women pursue him, not the other way around. And I’ve yet to see him with the same woman on his arm twice.”