by Brenda Joyce
Amelia seized her hands. “I know how infatuated with him you were. I know how crushed you are now! Let me help you, dear.”
She trembled. “I am fine, Amelia. Truly. I must simply come to grips with the truth.”
“How can you be fine? You nursed him to health, you became close friends and you were his constant companion. You saved his life, and his repayment was a terrible deception. He betrayed us both, Julianne, but I didn’t care for him as you did. I am angry—but I can only imagine how you feel.”
“I despise him.”
Amelia nodded. “In time, you will forget.”
He had ordered her to forget he had ever existed, or that they had ever been “acquainted.” Suddenly Julianne felt sick.
He was the coldest, most unfeeling human being she had ever met. How could he have deceived her as he had? How could he have walked away, with no feeling, no heartbreak? He deserved whatever fate the war handed him!
Amelia wrapped her in an embrace.
“I fell in love with him,” Julianne confessed in a whisper. “I loved him so! This hurts so much. And the worst part is, I keep wondering where he is now—and if he cared at all—if that damned Tory cared!”
“I am sure he cared—you were friends—and you did save his life. But you will forget him, Julianne.” Yet her words somehow sounded like a question, and doubt laced her tone.
“How can I ever forget what he has done? Amelia, I saw his lack of expression—his lack of emotion.” She was a fool to hope that he had cared, she thought with another huge pang. He couldn’t have deceived her as he had if he had cared at all.
Amelia stared, her gaze searching. “Julianne, the morning you were ill—when I asked you where you had been.” She stopped. “Were you really ill?”
Julianne turned away.
Amelia seized her arm. “Please tell me you weren’t with him.”
Julianne trembled, intending to deny it, but she met her sister’s eyes and desperately needed her love, her kindness, her support. She heard herself say, “I was with him, Amelia.”
“Oh, God!”
Julianne turned and saw that her sister was as white as a ghost. “It really doesn’t matter now.”
“It matters!” Amelia cried, suddenly turning red with anger.
“You are to tell no one!” Julianne realized the jeopardy her confession had placed her in. “Amelia!”
“He wasn’t some commoner. He is a gentleman and a man of honor!” Her sister was horrified.
Julianne wanted to laugh. She could not. “I am sorry, he might be a nobleman, but obviously he is not a man of honor.”
Amelia whispered, “Bedford should be held to a higher standard.”
Julianne was confused. “He mentioned something about my asking for Bedford if I ever needed him.” The only Bedford she knew of was an earl, a very high-ranking peer. “Please don’t tell me he is related to the earl of Bedford, for I might truly die.”
Amelia said softly, “He is the earl of Bedford.”
TOM LOOKED UP from the desk in his High Street office, surprised. Then his surprise became concern. “Julianne?”
She had left Amelia standing in the kitchen, for the moment she had learned that Dominic Paget was the earl of Bedford, anger had consumed her. She had thought of nothing but the extent of his deception for the past hour. “I have news,” she said harshly, trembling.
Tom was on his feet and sliding on his handsomely embroidered olive-green coat. He quickly came toward her. “You seem very distraught. I am very afraid to ask what has happened.”
She somehow smiled tightly at him, but inwardly, she was seething. Dominic Paget had played her for a fool, claiming to be an officer in the republican army, when he was not just any noble but an earl, seated in Britain’s House of Lords! Everyone knew how wealthy Bedford was. Worse, Bedford was a renowned Tory! Pitt offered him the ministry of the Exchequer in a previous year. “A lot has happened in the past few days.” She inhaled, meeting his worried gaze.
He was clearly alarmed. “You are frighteningly pale. You should sit. I can make tea.”
“You are my friend and I need you, Tom.”
“What happened?”
She shook her head. “You were right about Maurice. He was pretending to be an officer in the French army. He is actually…Bedford.” She waited for a reaction, the need to hurt Paget now savage.
Tom’s eyes widened. He was stunned. “Wait a moment. The earl of Bedford is a British agent?”
Suddenly Julianne felt a tingling of dismay, followed by the slightest sense of shame. She had just unmasked Paget. Tom was no fool and he had instantly understood the implications of his deception. Did she really want to destroy Bedford? Did she really want him to return to France and be uncovered—and guillotined? So many memories flooded her that she could not speak—and in every one, she was in Paget’s arms.
“That entire time—a month—you were nursing the earl of Bedford, not some common soldier?” Tom was incredulous.
When she did not answer—she could not—he cried, “God! I knew something was wrong. I could smell the deceit all over him!”
Julianne shoved the painful memories away, hugging herself. Paget was a liar. He had used her miserably. He did not deserve any concern on her part. He would get what he deserved. “You were right and I was wrong. I am a fool.”
Tom clasped her shoulder. “Julianne, you are the most intelligent woman I know. This is not your fault. It is his fault. He is a good-looking, charming man—and he knows it. Where is he now?”
She hesitated, reluctant to say any more. She would never tell Tom that Lucas was also involved in the war against France, and that he had taken Paget back to London. But should she tell Tom that Paget had returned to London? “He left.” She suddenly wanted to hedge. What was wrong with her? Didn’t she want Paget brought to the justice he deserved?
I will be in London for several weeks, if you need me.
I am very fond of you.
She wanted to scream aloud, Liar! Instead, she stared at Tom.
“I am going to write Marcel immediately,” Tom decided. He started for his desk, and then whirled. “Julianne, did he say where he was going? Did he return to France?”
The hesitation within her grew. She was confused. Did she truly want him to die?
“Julianne?”
If she told Tom that Paget had gone to London, would he bother to write to the club in Paris? Wouldn’t it be better to wait and carefully decide what to do next, when she was calmer? “He went to London, I think. But he will never use the same alias if he does go back.”
Tom stared at her, studying her. “If he is in London, we can find out easily enough. I’m sure half the town knows where his residence is.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked, filled with unease.
“Locate him, if I can. And of course, relay the information to Marcel.”
She became terribly uncertain—and frightened. She wished she hadn’t told Tom about Paget. She had never believed in vengeance, but she was simply so hurt. A course of vengeance was a decision that should be made carefully—not in a fit of anger. “What will they do? Will they…send an assassin?” She trembled.
“I doubt that. But they probably have agents in town, and they will watch him closely. That is what I would do, at least, and I would be prepared to continue the surveillance once he returns to France.” He grinned. “This information is a godsend!”
Julianne felt like crying. She turned away so Tom would not see.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly, from behind.
If she wasn’t careful, she’d go into his arms. She fought to recover some calm. “Yes.”
He studied her. “What happened, exactly? How did you uncover him? He certainly did not volunteer a confession.”
She had put Paget in jeopardy; she would never endanger Lucas. “I overheard him speaking with our stable boy—in perfect English,” she lied. “I was so upset that I confronted
him and he could not deny the truth.”
“But how did you ever learn he was Bedford?” Tom demanded instantly.
Julianne froze. And she recalled their last conversation. “He admitted it,” she said, trembling. “He admitted it and then ordered me to keep his secret.”
Tom accepted that and said, “Do you know how long he was in France, spying for Pitt?”
“No.” She walked over to one of the chairs in front of his desk and slumped down in it. She realized she was exhausted. But then, she had told Amelia that they were lovers, and now, she had told Tom that Bedford was an agent.
Tom came over to the desk and lay his hand on her shoulder. She smiled up at him, gratefully. “I can’t answer any more questions, not today.”
“You were very fond of him,” he said slowly. “I have been so carried away with the fact that he is an agent that I have overlooked how you must be feeling.”
“Please, don’t. I am fine.”
“How can you be fine? It is one thing to betray a cause—it is another to betray a person.”
“I am angry…and hurt. I thought we were friends. But I will recover.”
Tom was silent. He finally said, very carefully, “You didn’t look at him as if he were a mere friend. You looked at him as if he were the prince of all your dreams.”
She jerked.
“You fell for him, didn’t you?”
Julianne hugged herself, tears arising. “Yes.”
“Damn him,” Tom said savagely. “I knew it! Well, I will make sure Bedford gets what he deserves and he will rue the day he revealed himself to you.”
Julianne leapt up. “Maybe we shouldn’t interfere. Maybe we should leave these war games to the spies and agents who know how to play them!”
Tom was incredulous. “Surely you wish for him to meet his just deserts?”
“I don’t know what I want!” Julianne cried.
DOMINIC SMILED TO HIMSELF as they passed the tall, Gothic spires of Westminster Abbey, inhaling the rather noxious odors of London in the summertime. “God, I have missed the city.”
Lucas held a handkerchief over his nose. “A year and a half is a very long time.”
The coach they shared continued on, the ride rather jarring and bumpy. Dominic had not discussed his activities in France with Lucas. But they had been traveling for two entire days, stopping only to change horses and drivers and partake of a quick meal, and they had come to know one another rather well. They had spoken of the war, the revolution and the latest news at home. Greystone knew every pertinent detail about the wars on the Continent and quite a few details about the state of French politics. It had become very clear to Dominic that Lucas Greystone was involved in the war effort, although how, he did not know, did not ask, and Lucas did not say. He was clearly as conservative as Dominic was, and dead set against the revolution reaching the shores of Britain. Dominic liked him, but that made him somewhat uncomfortable—he felt as if he had betrayed Greystone by carrying on with his sister.
They had not discussed Julianne. Aware that the journey to London would take them two or three days, depending upon both the coaches they acquired and the weather, Dominic had been careful to keep their conversation impersonal.
Their coach turned north onto Parliament Street, and Dominic glanced briefly at the river, which was filled with ferries and barges of all shapes and sizes, the traffic heavy, as it always was. Dominic’s last confrontation with Julianne bothered him still. So did the moment she had learned the truth about him and his deception. He would never forget her absolute disbelief, nor would he forget her justifiable anger. He was very sorry the affair had ended as it had; he was even sorrier that she had ever learned that her hero did not exist.
A few minutes later they arrived at the Admiralty, and were climbing out of the coach. Lucas advised the driver to wait.
Dominic was silent as they walked up the broad, pale stone steps and crossed the spacious lobby. Naval officers and diplomats, peers and government officials, were coming and going.
“Bedford!”
Dominic turned to find the earl of St. Just crossing the lobby. Grenville was a tall, dark-haired man with a brooding air about him that made many accuse him of being aloof, while others took it for arrogance. He was very well dressed in a dark brown velvet coat, lace cuffs, pale breeches and white stockings. Characteristically, he did not wear a wig, his dark hair pulled back into a queue. Dominic let Greystone go on to the reception as St. Just halted, unsmiling. “I wondered when I’d see you again. Or even if I would.” He clasped Dom’s shoulder. “Glad that you are back, Bedford.”
Dominic smiled. “You are in town—in late July? I can only imagine why.” He was fairly certain that, in spite of having two small children, Grenville spent most of his time on the Continent—he was fluent in several languages. Like Dominic, he adamantly opposed the French revolution.
“We will have to catch a drink together, and share our secrets,” St. Just said, lifting his brows as he took in his appearance. “You need a new tailor, my friend.”
“What I need is my own closet. It is a long story. One I might think to share.”
“I will only be in town a few more days.” St. Just’s smile faded.
Dominic felt his own smile fade. “I will not be here very long, myself.”
They shared a look and St. Just walked off. Dom turned and saw Greystone at the reception, speaking with a pale, lanky clerk with pale blond hair. He strode toward them, the clerk coming forward. “My lord, I am Edmund Duke, the secretary’s assistant. He is delighted that you are here. It is my pleasure to escort you to him.”
Dominic shook the young man’s hand. “Duke.”
“Mr. Greystone? Secretary Windham would like to see you, as well.” Duke gestured that they should follow him inside the Admiralty.
They left the lobby. Inside, numerous offices were occupied, mostly by naval officers and clerks. Following Duke, Dom nodded at two admirals he happened to know. He had never met Windham personally, and he was curious. Windham’s office was at the far end of the corridor, the two teakwood doors wide open.
Duke knocked politely on the open door.
Dominic saw past him into a very spacious room. One wall of windows looked out onto Whitehall, a luxurious seating area before it. A vast desk was at the chamber’s other end, with several chairs before it. One wall contained bookcases. A large table was against the last wall, with several chairs, and piles of paperwork. Clearly numerous clerks assisting Windham worked there.
Two men stood up, having been seated on the sofa. Dom was not surprised to see Sebastian Warlock, nor was he surprised to see Edmund Burke. Both men were his mentors, even if no one knew it except for the parties involved.
Windham was a heavyset fellow in a green velvet coat, his wig white and powdered. He came forward, smiling, but the smile never reached his eyes. “Bedford, at last. It is a pleasure.”
Dominic shook the war secretary’s hand. “The honor is mine, sir.”
Windham turned and smiled at Lucas. “Greystone.”
“Sir.”
So they already knew one another, Dominic thought.
“I believe you know Warlock and Burke.”
Dom nodded. “Yes, I do.”
Sebastian came forward. He was a tall, dark-haired man, exceedingly good-looking, with piercing eyes that never missed a trick. “And have you thoroughly enjoyed the sandy beaches of Cornwall? You seem to have caught a bit of sun.”
“A well-deserved reward, don’t you think?”
“Actually, I do.” He extended his hand and Dom took it, as their gazes locked. He instantly knew Sebastian had dozens of questions, and that he would wish to speak to him privately when Windham was done with them.
Burke was not as aloof. He embraced Dom as he would a brother or a son. “I am glad to see you so well, Dom.” He slapped his back now, once. “I am glad you are safe and sound, and back.”
Dom glanced at Lucas. “I owe Greystone and h
is entire family. Otherwise, I would not be standing here right now.”
“Edmund, pour everyone a scotch. My best, if you please,” Windham said. “There is some good news for you, Bedford. Jacquelyn defeated an entire division of Biron’s troops on July 17.”
He felt his entire body flood with relief. “Thank God. We were routed at the end of June, outside Nantes. We were outnumbered and outgunned.”
“We know,” Burke said.
Dom faced the war secretary. “Sir, we are in dire need of guns, powder, cannon, other munitions, not to mention bread and other foods. And we need surgeons. We have no way of caring for the wounded, not if we suffer another rout as we did then.” He accepted a glass of scotch from Duke.
Windham turned. “Thank you, Edmund.”
The assistant backed out of the room, closing both doors.
Windham said, “We are very aware of your needs. Jacquelyn has sent us several missives. But we have logistical problems.”
Surely, they would not deny aid to the rebels in the Loire Valley, Dom thought, disbelieving. “Sir, I am here to ask you for supplies, and to arrange a rendezvous between your convoy and Jacquelyn. La Vendée must be supported if you wish to defeat the French republicans.”
Burke clasped his shoulder. “Even as we now speak, Toulon, Lyon and Marseilles are in our hands. Bordeaux is in the throes of a counter insurgency. There are pockets of rebellion in Brittany, as well.”
Dom started. “That is damned good news.” He glanced at Sebastian. “Is the road to Paris still open?” If the Allies took Paris, the French republicans would be crushed. They could not withstand such a defeat.
Windham said, “Yes, it is. General Kellerman is marching on Lyon with eight thousand troops but we believe he faces fifteen or twenty thousand rabidly anti-republican citizens. The French have sent a very young, inexperienced army officer to take Toulon, a man by the name of Napoleon Bonaparte. He will never succeed. And Coburg is consolidating the Coalition’s positions in Flanders, the Rhine and the Pyrennees. The war is going well.”