“I think I’ll freshen myself,” she said matter-of-factly, standing beside him while she looked only at his face. “Then we’ll eat.” She smoothed her skirt and lifted the apron from the floor to lay it across the back of another chair. “I had an interesting meeting with Rothebury in the forest. I’ll tell you about it during dinner. The man is a spider, Thomas.”
He chuckled as he pulled his rain-damp trousers over his hips. “A spider? I thought perhaps you’d find him to your liking.”
Puzzlement lit her brow. “Aside from his illegal and immoral dealings, I suppose he is the type of man I would have preferred in France, in the city. But not here.”
“Not here?”
Not now, she wanted to say, but didn’t dare. Her insides were awash with confusion again because she didn’t understand her thoughts regarding these last few weeks with Thomas. He made her think in different ways, respond differently to her feelings. Brushing the topic aside, she said instead, “Will you stir the gravy? I don’t want it to burn.”
“Of course.”
She detected the slightest hint of amusement in his words but she let that pass. Tying her hair in place with the discarded ribbon, she turned and walked to the door, stopping short when she reached it. After only a moment’s hesitation, she disclosed, “He’s investigated you, I think. He says nobody in Eastleigh has ever heard of you.”
She didn’t pose that as a question really, not wanting to appear distrustful herself, but she did hope for an explanation. He said nothing until she put her palm on the frame and glanced back to him. Sitting forward in the chair, elbows on knees, he stared at the wooden floor.
“Madeleine, because of my injuries I have become somewhat of a recluse. I know few people and have even fewer close friends. That I am not well known in Eastleigh doesn’t come as a surprise. I live in the country, not in the town proper, and I’ve kept to myself for years.”
It was an extremely difficult thing for him to say. She sensed that and was content to let the subject rest. “Are you at all concerned that he’s suspicious of you?”
He shook his head slowly. “No. He’s getting nervous, but I don’t think he knows anything, at least not enough to act on.”
She paused again, listening to the pounding rain on the rooftop, breathing in the satisfying aroma of pork roast and apples. “When will you tell me what happened to your legs, Thomas?”
He rubbed his palm harshly down his face. “Soon.”
For a reason she couldn’t at all understand, that simple answer liquefied her. Softening her voice, she asked hopefully, “Will you play a game of chess with me later?”
He met her gaze at last. “It’s always the favorite part of my day, Madeleine,” he replied in a silky murmur. “I want to see how many games it takes before you beat me.”
“I’m beginning to think it might take a very long time.”
He didn’t respond, but the look he gave her made her stomach flutter, her hands tremble. It was so full of…something she couldn’t define, something meaningful and lovely. He caressed her with his eyes, his slightly parted lips begging for her touch. Her touch. Only hers. Madeleine knew it, and the instant realization shocked her as new and wonderful thoughts filled the spaces in her mind where doubt had always been.
Chapter 13
The Christmas season had arrived. An air of festivity and excitement drifted through Winter Garden as everyone prepared for the religious holiday. Carol singers stood in the square from time to time, entertaining those who chanced to walk by, bells rang from the church, and children popped crackers and collected evergreen pine and holly to hang from mantelpieces and doorways.
Madeleine had taken the last week to prepare bonbons—rich French chocolate balls wrapped in decorative paper—to deliver to several of the villagers. For those who were not suspicious of her as a Frenchwoman among them, the chocolates were accepted with pleasure and she well received. For others, including naturally, Lady Claire Childress and Penelope Bennington-Jones, the bonbons were taken by colorless butlers who thanked her cordially and informed her that neither lady was at home. Desdemona remained hidden it seemed, although being pregnant was, of course, a convenient excuse to shy away from visitors.
Madeleine and Thomas’s investigation continued, albeit slowly. It had been two weeks since her encounter with the baron, and in that time neither she nor Thomas had learned anything new. On several occasions they had walked the lake path at night only to see nothing, hear nothing, in the dark coldness. Madeleine sensed that Thomas was stalling, although she couldn’t explain that, even to herself. He seemed content to live in the cottage with her and learn things about the opium smuggling operation by chance, as they happened, rather than drawing them out. He had little desire to solve this investigation in haste; and with some misgivings toward her own laziness, if one could call it that, she realized she did, too, She enjoyed Thomas’s company more and more each day, and, of course, England was a refreshing change for her. Although the focus of her work remained in France, this was her home, this was the place where she belonged, if only in heart and mind. She would use any excuse to remain on British soil for as long as possible.
She and Thomas had grown closer during the last two weeks as well, although only in the most superficial of ways, if she had to put a phrase to it. They usually spent their days together, reading or writing letters in companionable silence, walking in the village or paying social calls to a few, playing chess most evenings, or talking. He still kept his private life to himself, and she didn’t pry, although he talked frequently of his son, whom he loved immeasurably. She ached to ask him about the ordeal in his past that had scarred him, but something inside that she couldn’t explain compelled her to keep silent. She knew he would reveal more of himself to her in time. For some unexplainable reason, she felt they still had much of it together. She was certainly in no rush to escape his presence.
That troubled her, in its own way, very much. Although Madeleine was content to have a sexual relationship with Thomas, she couldn’t allow it to blossom into anything more. She refused to miss him when she left, beyond the mildest sense, of course. She didn’t want to be hurt or to hurt him, for that matter. She couldn’t be certain of his feelings for her, but she was beginning to suspect that they went deeper than hers did for him. Sometimes she would catch him staring at her, an expression of intense longing in his complex and brutally masculine features, his eyes betraying thoughts and emotions he refused to verbalize.
They had yet to become lovers, at least in the fullest sense of the word, and her desire was growing each day. Since that eventful night in the kitchen when she had given without receiving, he hadn’t embraced her, however much she tried to attract his physical attention. Twice he’d kissed her passionately, but both times he’d stopped the passion before it overcame them. She’d been anxious but considerate, and he hadn’t pursued her.
Now she was tired of it. She wanted him badly, and tonight she would make sure they both received physical pleasure, regardless of what she had to do to entice him. It was the night before Christmas, the time for giving.
“I want to hear how you became a spy for the British government.”
That statement, posed abruptly, jarred her from her thoughts. She and Thomas sat together on the sofa, in front of a warm fire, sipping brandy after a delicious meal of roasted goose with onion and sage stuffing, squash, plum pudding and iced chocolate fudge, the rest of which they would finish tomorrow after the Christmas church service. It was nearly midnight, and for the last two hours Thomas had been talking about several of his prior investigations for the Crown, all of them in England. She had listened raptly—when her mind hadn’t wandered to his physique only inches away from the touch of her hands. He was a fascinating man for all his quietness, and had done a great deal for the English cause in the last decade. Now she supposed it was her turn.
She smiled into his eyes and strengthened her hold on the snifter in her lap to stop herself from
reaching for him. “Compared to your stories, Monsieur Blackwood, I’m afraid mine is rather boring.”
“Indulge me,” he insisted, taking a sip of his brandy.
Madeleine eyed him directly. Thick, long thigh muscles pulled his black trousers taut; his wide chest bulged behind his silk shirt, making her wonder how, with such disabilities, he was able to remain so physically fit. Whatever he did, it worked, for she had such trouble resisting him, on any level—intellectually, physically—even emotionally, which worried her a little.
His lips twitched upward, drawing her attention, beckoning her…. She cleared her throat and looked to the warm amber liquid in the glass on her lap.
“I didn’t have the best of childhoods, Thomas. My mother detested me in general, although I tended to be useful as her servant girl. At sixteen I began line dancing on the stage during my free time, which wasn’t often, to earn what little money I could. I refused to consider prostitution, primarily because I had seen what it had done to my mother. I wanted to be able to support myself and I didn’t have any other skills.”
“Your mother was a prostitute?” he cut in softly.
She shook her head. “Not for money, and not intentionally as a form of employment. But she traded sexual favors for opium when she needed it and couldn’t afford it. I was frequently in the next room and could hear everything.”
He didn’t say anything to that, so she carried on. “Initially my income as a dancer was very small, and I didn’t care at all for the lewd comments I received from lustful men, but I was able to save almost every bit of it because my mother wasn’t aware. She would have taken it for herself had she known. After four years I’d earned enough to comfortably leave, and at the age of twenty I walked out on her.” She sighed at the painful memories. “She hated me for that, Thomas. She yelled expletives at me as I closed the door on her, not because she loved me or was afraid for my welfare, but because I wouldn’t be there anymore to rouse her when she was drunk, or clean and mend her clothes, or cook her food and clean up after her. I haven’t seen her in nine years, and I will honestly admit that in those nine years I haven’t missed her one day.”
He adjusted his frame on the sofa so that he sat a little closer, so that she smelled his clean, male scent a little more strongly, so that she could see the tightness of his pants stretch across his hips and thighs when he moved. She squeezed her snifter and took another sip of her brandy.
“You never had anyone to love you, did you, Madeleine?”
She paused, the glass tipped against her bottom lip, and then her heart skipped a beat when she met his honey-brown eyes, ignited with understanding and tenderness. He reached out with his fingers and took a few strands of her hair between them, rubbing them gently.
“The only person who ever truly loved me was my father,” she replied steadily, subdued.
He studied her face. “I imagine that would be very hard on a child, to lose one’s father at such an early age and then have nobody.”
His quest for discussion of such personal issues made her a little uncomfortable. The topic was too upsetting, the memories too grievous. “I only saw him those few precious times, but I think the idea that he would arrive one day and take me out of France and back to England where I felt I belonged was what kept me happy all those years. When I discovered he had died, something inside of me died with him. It was as if my hopes and dreams were stolen from me.” She tried her best to make the statement casual, to keep her anger in check, as she had done for years. “From that moment on,” she concluded lightly, somewhat indifferently, “I took matters into my own hands. My life today is what I’ve made of it. I refuse to be unhappy.”
He nodded, gazing at the tips of her hair as he held them up for his inspection under firelight. “My parents loved me,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful. “But they’ve been dead for years, so I only remember a few good times, memorable times. William loves me more than words, but then I am his father and his only close, living relation. My wife cared for me very much, but our marriage was arranged. She was my distant cousin, and we both knew from a young age that we would marry each other. I loved her, too, in the same way. I took her death very hard because I had known her most of my life.” His gaze grew vivid and intense as he looked back into her eyes. “I suppose I received a great deal more affection than you growing up, but like you, Maddie, I’ve never felt truly, passionately loved.”
By a woman, he meant. Her stomach tied in knots again, and she took another long sip of her brandy. He was just so focused on her that it made her nerves tingle with an unusual form of anticipation and excitement.
He needed to understand who she was. He already knew what she was, but not who. The forces of her past had shaped her, molded her into a strong, independent woman, and that independence was more important to her than any love she might have lacked.
Not one to imbibe much, Madeleine placed her snifter, half full, on the tea table in front of her. He released her hair from his grasp but kept his arm relaxed across the sofa back, his hand next to her shoulder.
“When I left France at the age of twenty,” she continued, attempting to revert to the original topic, “I came immediately to England, to meet my father’s family. I was accepted with what I would call reserved warmth, but they could never embrace me as one of them. I am not only half French, but also illegitimate. They were courteous but…restrained. I stayed for three weeks, left without tears, and went to the Home Office in search of a position.”
His mouth twisted fractionally, and it made her grin. “I know,” she acknowledged, rubbing her palm along her forehead. “I look back on it now and wonder at my audacity. The men in charge nearly laughed me from the building. But I persevered, going to visit Sir Riley three times in as many weeks. When that final attempt failed at winning his…unconditional respect, and he again refused to hire a woman—and a French one at that—I returned to France vowing to continue my quest to help the English on my own. That was nine years ago, though it seems like yesterday.
“For three years I worked my way inside the French elite, learning what I could to help the British cause at home—little pieces of information that I would pass along to Sir Riley with the salutation, ‘Warm regards from the Frenchwoman.’” Her eyes thinned slyly. “He knew who I was, and I enjoyed that little bit of power. I lived the life of a Parisian socialite by day, attending the appropriate parties, the devoted mistress to the right gentlemen when I so chose. I became someone I wanted to become, and nobody questioned it. I certainly learned to be a better actress than my mother.”
Madeleine looked at Thomas frankly to see if he was shocked by her disclosures, but he remained expressionless, motionless, listening intently. She decided that she would tell all. He seemed to be truly curious, caring, and she knew without question that he wouldn’t be judgmental.
“I continued to dance from time to time in filthy, smoky halls, where sweaty, drunken men would throw coins at my body and offer graphic sexual suggestions to my face in the hope of favors. I kept my identities separate, and fortunately for me those people of influence I socialized with by day were not the same as those who frequented dance clubs at night. I still needed the income, though, and I knew it would only be a matter of time before I received word from Sir Riley that I had been accepted as one of you.”
He crossed a booted ankle over the other. “Rather naive of you, don’t you think?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Yes. I was very naive, but also extremely confident.”
He matched her grin for grin, then sipped his brandy again. “Go on.”
She hesitated a moment, relishing the companionable silence as she considered her next words. In the end she decided to be blunt.
“In early July, eighteen forty-three, while lying naked in bed with a widowed French diplomat, he unintentionally—and unfortunately—mentioned that Claude Denis Boudreau and Bernard Chartrand, two very high-profile political prisoners, were going to be transferred fr
om trial in London directly to Newgate, and plans were in the making to free them while in transit, with force if needed.” Smugly she straightened, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her smile turning devilish. “It was just the news I had been waiting for and I couldn’t very well send such grave information to Sir Riley in a message. Time was critical, so I went to London myself for only two days, waiting hours in the cold and gloomy office building before he would see me. He was surprised and somewhat amused by my presence, but I think heavily persuaded by my tact and knowledge of the impending fiasco.
“When at last I learned that the Frenchmen involved in the conspiracy were apprehended, and Chartrand and Boudreau had continued to prison without incident, I knew I had proved myself to Sir Riley’s satisfaction. Three days later, on August second, I was contacted informally near my home in Paris by one of our associates. Within twenty-four hours I had become Madeleine DuMais, widow of the mythical Georges DuMais, immediately sent to Marseille to begin my career as an informant in the field of trade smuggling.” She flicked her wrist. “And for whatever else might arise.”
“You’re well known at the Office,” he interjected, mildly amused, “and tremendously admired.”
Madeleine had suspected this, but hearing it spoken aloud for the first time, with what she could have sworn sounded like boastful pride in his voice, caused her throat to close with emotion.
“Even as a Frenchwoman?” she asked with quiet diffidence.
“Especially because you’re a Frenchwoman.”
That was the greatest compliment of all. She leaned toward him, placing her palm on his upper arm, squeezing it gently, feeling hot skin beneath soft silk. Passionately she revealed, “I adore my work, Thomas. It’s who I am, not merely what I do. If there is one thing I’ve learned in my twenty-nine years it’s that love is fleeting, but who you are is not. I chose this path to live as a French spy for the British government because it’s who I am and always have been. I will forever be comfortable with that, and I need nothing more to make my life worthwhile.”
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