A sense of urgency embraced Gillian as she inspected the overeager throng within Drury Lane’s box lobby.
“I’m told the admiral’s health is failing,” said a nearby woman, fanning herself with a hand-painted fan in the entryway.
“Malaria,” the man to her left responded. “Came down with it again, they say. But he won’t see her.”
“Who?” the woman asked, glancing up at him.
“His wife.” The woman’s face brightened, and her brows shot up as he grimaced. “Lady Nelson deserves respect,” he scolded. “It’s repugnant the way he parades that Hamilton woman about.”
Gillian groaned inwardly, remembering the ghastly moment she’d suggested being Danbury’s mistress once she’d found out he was betrothed. He’d softly told her that he loved her, and because he loved her, he wouldn’t allow it. He’d explained that she deserved to be treated like a queen, not a man’s bird of paradise.
Much about Nelson’s troubled marriage was in the public domain, though Frances Nisbet Nelson—the rightful Lady Nelson—was continuously held in the highest regard, no matter how goatish her husband behaved.
Above Gillian, crystal chandeliers lit the box lobby, illuminating the grand amphitheater and casting an ethereal glow on the well-to-do and sundry congregating in the horseshoe-shaped audience. Ladies in attendance clustered together. Men slapped one another on the back. The splendorous decor accentuated the figures of the silken beauties and the laced cuffs, brightly polished uniforms, and tailored suits of men sporting starched cravats. A spectacular promenade of actors and audience alike heralded a night of jovial bliss, contradicting the pulsing sense of desperation churning inside Gillian.
Her belly clenched with unease as she surveyed the faces in the crowd. The oblivious theatergoers were practicing courtly manners and bantering among themselves, unaware of the danger around them. Somewhere within, Fouché’s men were hiding in plain sight, and Gillian would have to be particularly careful not to draw any attention to herself before she met with Percival Avery, Marquess Stanton. He was a dear friend who’d worked with them on various missions, a man of many disguises who often hid behind a foppish mask. She’d contacted him immediately after Lucien’s death, urgently requesting he join her in Box Three.
Stanton’s access to Lord Danbury had proven beneficial to Gillian and Lucien. The two men had been fast friends, and in exchange for receiving covert training, the marquess had sworn to keep Gillian’s secret, to never reveal her true occupation.
Suddenly, she gasped. There! In the corner!
A man stood with his back to her, but his nut-brown hair carried a familiar wave. She retreated behind a tall gentleman and waited, refusing to breathe. Her quarry turned, revealing shifty eyes, a hooked nose, and a pockmarked face.
Definitely not Simon.
Gillian took a deep breath and tried to settle her nerves before turning her attention to the staircase that led to the boxes above the Royal Box as the pulsing throng progressed toward the theater doors. To her memory, Box Three offered an excellent view of the theater. There, she’d inform Stanton about the threat to Lord Nelson’s life and they could survey the space for the vice-admiral’s assassin.
A feminine voice purred to her left, and Gillian chanced a look, noting that the woman’s tiny, pale figure was no comparison to her own: she towered over the young miss by half.
“Do you think he’ll wear his uniform, Your Grace?” the woman asked, angling her face to the light. “I hear he casts a spectacular figure, even without an arm.”
A smartly fashioned duke leaned closer to the woman. “He’s never without his uniform, I hear,” he whispered. “And though the romantic in you would find an eye patch thrilling, Nelson does not wear one to cover his blind eye.”
Gillian slipped past, making sure to keep the wall at her back and the expectant audience between her and the auditorium as she moved toward the stairs.
“He’s back in England because he’s ill again,” another patron ventured to guess. “Malaria again, the poor fellow.”
The comment was followed by a strong rebuking feminine shriek. “I don’t care what the admiral has endured. He’s a connoisseur of the dollies and has made himself ridiculous being seen with that woman. If he brings her, I shall not hold my tongue.”
“Do you believe it possible for her to accompany him?” another man asked, eliciting several guffaws.
Gillian pressed her hand to her throat. She didn’t know who had uttered the sarcastic remark, but it brought a half smile to her face even as her heart drummed erratically against her ribs.
“Did you say he might bring Lady Hamilton?” a feather-clad woman asked, jumping into the conversation. “I had so hoped to see Lady Nelson on his arm.”
Fear gripped Gillian. Lady Nelson and Lady Hamilton were the least of the ton’s worries. As one of a few privy to the real reason for Nelson’s return, she knew that he’d been ordered to protect England’s shores. The vice-admiral intended to do just that by forming a clandestine group of rogues that would be called Nelson’s Tea. The organization of those mercenaries was the reason Fouché and his gendarmes—Napoleon’s secret police—had put a bounty on Nelson’s head.
She swallowed to moisten her dry mouth and listened more closely.
“Quite. It’s all the banter on the benches,” a stodgy gentleman with a nasal voice answered.
Gabble-grinders were rampant tonight. Vice-Admiral Nelson wasn’t to be pitied and mocked. Instead, he should be held in the highest regard for his successful ruse de guerre at the Battle of Copenhagen and the peace agreement he’d secured with the Danes.
Disgust swept through Gillian with unrelenting force. What did these fashionable fools know about sacrifice? There were weightier concerns in the world than the state of Nelson’s reputation. The vice-admiral saw that import routes remained open. He provided England access to rationed goods—goods the ton would greatly miss if he failed. In truth, if they comprehended the danger Nelson was in, that they were in, they’d scramble to the exits without a backward glance.
Milksops! The lot of them!
If the missive Lucien had given her was any indication, Nelson’s would-be assassins were close. And with Lady Hamilton’s penchant for being the center of the vice-admiral’s attention, all it would take was one strike at her to cut Nelson to the marrow. Gillian pressed her lips together, placed a hand to her neck, and inhaled a tremulous breath.
Argand lamps were raised just beyond the entryway that led to the stage, and the melodious tone of the orchestra’s strings signaled that the performance was about to begin. Gillian’s blood vibrated through her extremities, and her nerves intensified as the crush of bodies pressed into the theater. Conversations around her grew louder as the horde ventured to the five-shilling section, where nobility and the privileged congregated. Gentry and critics paraded to the three-shilling benches in the pit, and tradesmen flocked to the two-shilling seats. Servants and ordinary citizens sought the one-shilling seats in the upper gallery, an extravagance they could rarely afford to pay and one that forced them to enter the theater from a separate door. It was the perfect way for assassins to sneak inside.
Her senses on high alert, Gillian wove past gentlemen, military officers, soldiers, dandies, and ladies of every persuasion, whose primary goal was to see and be seen. To mock, not be mocked, beneath the silent speculation of painted cherubs staring down from an ornate ceiling. Fortuitously, the entire theater was her stage, and everyone in it an unsuspecting player.
Five years had passed since Gillian had returned to London. The ton still blazed proudly like a well-oiled lamp in a murky fog—a bristling, unsettling revelation when she hadn’t yearned for Society or pined for it in her absence. She’d stayed away from London, from Lord Danbury. She’d kept her sanity intact by suppressing her feelings for the man who hadn’t returned her love. Now, by coming back here, she risked a confrontation with him. Would the walls she’d erected around her heart withstand suc
h a reunion? Not in her current fragile state of mind . . .
A knot tightened in her belly. The weight of her deception, the risk to Vice-Admiral Nelson, to Lucien’s memory, threatened to crush her. She struggled to catch her breath and regain control as the crowd stopped moving, blocking her escape.
Gather your courage. This isn’t your first foray into dangerous waters.
No. For reasons beyond her control, she once more breathed the stench of debauchery that had been the center of her life several years earlier. She’d kept her distance until now—until her dutiful, albeit secretive and resourceful, husband’s death.
Oh, how she missed Lucien. He’d been her closest friend, and although their love had not been one of romance, she didn’t regret a single moment of their life together. He had taken her ideals and broadened them substantially. He’d been her hero, a staunch believer in every man’s right to free will.
Beat the enemy first, negotiate afterward, Nelson had once said. These weren’t the words a bereaved woman normally clung to, but then, she wasn’t a normal woman.
The crowd parted, revealing a space on the staircase. Gillian hiked up the hem of her black bombazine gown and moved forward. It wouldn’t be long until she was safe within Box Three, free to pass Lucien’s missive to the marquess. Suddenly, her hair stood on end. An odd, disturbing shiver swept over her—familiar, yet life altering. She peered over her shoulder and spied the face of the one man she’d hoped not to see: Lord Simon Danbury.
Her heart hitched, and her breath caught. It took every ounce of her strength to remain calm and not to turn and run as if she’d been stung by a thousand bees. Mindful that she was under close scrutiny, she began to ascend the stairs without drawing attention to herself. With so much at stake, now wasn’t the time to allow her past, no matter how hurtful it had been, to interfere with what she’d come to do.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a stagehand announced.
The pressing crowd came to a stop, barring her advance up the stairs. Gillian took advantage of the impediment to her passage, taking cover behind taller men to regard the motionless crowd and perhaps set her fears to rest. Had Simon seen her? Would he pursue her?
Light flickered off the papered walls beneath the candelabras, and rich hues of crimson and gold provided an opulent escape from the leaden sky outdoors. But there was no time to admire such luxuries.
Movement to her right and left belowstairs drew her gaze down to the lobby below. Men dressed in civilian garb ignored the announcer’s speech, behaving noticeably different from the other theatergoers. Instead of paying rapt attention, the men assumed predatory positions at various intervals in the lobby, taking great pains to look normal as they glanced at pocket watches or read the cast list. Royal guards. Since a prior assassination attempt on King George III—one Lucien helped to circumvent—a strategic plan had been put into place to thwart any further threats to the king and his son, the Prince of Wales. Gillian had counted on these guards being present, but tonight, the threat wasn’t against the king. It was against Vice-Admiral Nelson.
“The play is about to begin,” the announcer continued. “Everyone take your seats!”
Another man stepped into the light. He was tall and lean with slightly wavy, nut-brown hair that had grayed slightly at his temples. His distrusting eyes skimmed over the crowd, and he flicked his gaze to the exit and then toward her.
Filled with foreboding, Gillian shrank back behind several men. She clenched the folds of her skirts as her nerve endings throbbed to life. Beneath the scintillating, surging opera house music Lord Danbury’s given name—Simon—nearly escaped her lips. Even though he stood below her, he may as well have been standing right in front of her. He was close, closer than she wanted him to be.
Concentrate!
It was hard to do when her senses reeled the way they did, however. Simon had no idea that Lucien had trained her to be his equal. He would have argued against putting Gillian in harm’s way, but he’d given up that right when he’d enticed her to marry Lucien, insisting that the marriage would protect her from Drury Lane’s scurrilous rakes, as well as Gillian’s own abusive father, who was now deceased.
No matter what could be said of their mutual parting, Simon’s ability to affect her body and soul was the only reason she hadn’t wanted to fulfill Lucien’s request to come to London. What she and Simon had shared was in the past, and she wanted to keep it that way. But a small sadistic part of her had known Simon would be at tonight’s performance, especially with Nelson in attendance. Their friendship dated back to the vice-admiral’s command of HMS Agamemnon and their mutual interest in protecting the king and anything, or anyone, of importance to His Majesty.
“Enjoy tonight’s performance,” the announcer proclaimed.
The crowd set into motion once more, successfully blocking Simon from view, and allowing her to focus on her objective. Gillian tried to ignore the anxiety coiling in her belly. She shook her head to clear it as she ascended the next level of stairs to the third floor and headed toward Box Three. Would the marquess already be waiting for her there?
The missive Lucien had given her had come from Philippe d’Auvergne, a fellow Chouan and Vice-Admiral of the Red, adopted son of Godefroy de La Tour d’Auvergne, the Duke of Bouillon. He was also a former colleague of Nelson’s who operated safe houses and landing sites, and secured safe passage across the Channel Islands, smuggling people and assignat—counterfeit bank notes—into France to inflate its economy. From the massive tower he’d built at La Hougue Bie in Jersey, known as the Prince’s Tower, d’Auvergne had discovered a plot to kill Nelson. And with the announcement of Holcroft’s Deaf and Dumb, Gillian didn’t have much time. Nelson was the Admiralty’s greatest weapon. The loss of his life would jeopardize the entire future of England’s fleet.
Blood thundered in her veins, the sound vibrating like drums between her ears. She had met with the marquess six months prior for another mission, but it had been years since she’d last seen Simon. Even still, the words he’d spoken to her then were as clear as if it had been yesterday.
It’s for your own good, Gillian. I cannot love you. His gray eyes had held hers, imprisoning her in regret, and still, to this day, the memory managed to cut through her. Their love had not been meant to be. The sudden ache in her heart hit her with shocking force. She’d lost Simon five years ago, and now she’d lost Lucien. She wasn’t sure how much more her heart could take.
You will be better off with Lucien. And I will have the luxury of knowing that you are safe, Simon had said.
Safe? Simon had no idea the course he’d set her on.
Oh, Lucien . . . She’d die before she failed him.
For a moment, Gillian glanced down at her black-gloved fingers, recalling the dark-red warmth of Lucien’s blood and the last time he’d looked into her eyes.
Applause erupted, filling the immense structure with a deafening sound. Her heart skipped a beat. No. No. No. Has Nelson already arrived?
Promptness wasn’t one of Nelson’s customs at public events. He preferred making a grand entrance to acclamations and loud huzzahs. No, she reasoned, casually surveying the amphitheater. The applause didn’t signal Nelson’s arrival, but rather, it was another indication the play was about to begin.
Gillian swallowed and tempered her wildly beating heart as she pushed through the throng. Shadows danced across the walls as flickering chandeliers dangled overhead, casting a golden hue on the wave of bodies ascending above her. She’d taken precautions, donning her widow’s weeds to conceal her identity—though she was a widow in a very real sense now. For Lucien, England, Nelson, and everyone seated in the opera house, she would justly sacrifice herself here and now if she could fulfill her promise to her late husband and save Nelson’s life. But would she be able to?
Gillian took a deep breath and crossed herself discreetly. So help me God.
Two
“They have their exits and their entrances,
And o
ne man in his time plays many parts—”
~William Shakespeare, As You Like It
Lord Simon Danbury shut out the rumors he’d heard about Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson from the prattle-boxes before him and searched for anyone or anything suspicious in the congested foyer. Experience had taught him to be diligent, no matter the venue or how innocent people may seem. He recalled all too easily how James Hadfield had stood in the audience and taken a shot at King George III as the monarch had entered the Royal Box with the queen and princesses at his side, and the orchestra began playing “God Save the King.” If not for Lucien Corbet, Baron Chauncey’s assistance, the narrow miss might have cost England more than a king who’d reigned for over forty years. Deranged and determined men would do anything to further their cause, as he could attest. He worked with the former war secretary and Admiralty treasurer, Henry Dundas, to rout the United Irishmen and merchants who joined the Corresponding Societies in London, Manchester, and Yorkshire. The groups fought against the Acts of Union unifying Great Britain and Ireland, and had already plotted to kill the king and murder the Privy Council, caring nothing for King George’s legacy, especially after he’d lost the Colonies.
This day, in particular, Simon had cause for worry. A hero would be in their midst. Vice-Admiral Nelson was scheduled to make an appearance after securing a hard-won peace agreement with the Danes. His arrival provided a perfect opportunity for chaos in the cultural divide. To offset trouble, strategies had been crafted to counter any attack that might take place. Citizens had swarmed to Drury Lane for a spectacle, a chance to see England’s savior and offer praise in the presence of the king’s son, the Prince of Wales. Anything could go wrong. And Simon would be ready to staunch any attempt to do so.
Orson, one of the hired men in Simon’s employ, came to stand beside him.
“Is everyone in place?” Simon asked.
“Yes,” Orson answered. “We are ready, my lord.”
My Lord Rogue Page 2