He made every effort to remain calm, to prevent her from seeing how deeply wounded he was by her insolence. “When have you ever seen a widow at the opera? If you intended not to draw attention to yourself, you have failed. Black attire is an unusual choice. It leads me to recall one particular time your masquerading as a widow earned a disagreeable end . . .”
“How dare you remind me of Sarah Siddons,” she said, her tone carefully controlled. “I worked extremely hard to portray Lady Macbeth. If not for my father . . .” Gillian turned away from him. “I cannot go on. Leave,” she whispered. “Before it’s too late.”
“Too late?” He huffed. “What has taken hold of you? It’s unlike you to be so nervous.”
“I am not nervous. I am all anticipation,” she said. Her words wavered slightly as she stepped farther into the shadows. “It has been too long since . . . I’ve attended a production.” She stared strangely at her hands, making him wonder what was fascinating her. She glanced up, her eyes sullen, transformed. Was it because she still hated him?
“Time has never been on our side, Simon.”
Lucifer take it, she’d finally used his given name. A disemboweling dagger couldn’t have done more damage. If he didn’t do something soon, he was going to bleed out. And that simply would not do. “Gillian,” he said, unable to control the passion that crept into his voice. “Something is wrong. I can feel it. I assure you, I can give you—”
“Nothing,” she said with split-second timing. She turned back to look at him, a forlorn smile on her face. “This is something I must do.”
Did she hate him that much?
“You aren’t going to tell me why you are here, are you?”
Three
“His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant . . .
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.”
~William Shakespeare, As You Like It
Lucien’s death was a raw wound, but Gillian did not feel it the way a lover would. She had little guilt about not having consummated her vows. Their marriage agreement had been more binding than any spiritual coupling, and yet, it was so unlike the way she was drawn to Simon. She despised how she yearned to be held by him, touched by him, kissed by him, never to be parted—even after all these years. Her husband had always understood who’d pulled her heartstrings. He’d used that knowledge to empower her, train her, mold her into an equal partner, so that one day, when the time was right, she would have all the opportunities in the world.
“You have no hold over me, Simon.” With an upward tilt of her chin, she presented a brave face, pressing home the fact that he could try to make her tell him why she was at Drury Lane but that she’d never relent. She didn’t have to. She’d grown stronger of character because of Lucien, and perhaps more stubborn, if that was possible. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
Was she? The product of a penniless father who prized ale over blood, she’d been performing in the theater when she’d first met Simon, alongside notable greats like Elizabeth Farren, Frances Abington, and siblings Sarah Siddons and John Philip Kemble. Siddons had a habit of bedding patrons. And amid the realization that Simon was fated to marry another, Gillian had not been above destroying her own reputation to become Simon’s bird of paradise. What a fool she’d been then. No longer.
A knot rose in her throat, making it exceptionally hard to swallow.
“I know you believe you can take care of yourself,” Simon said. “But I assigned you a protector, Gillian, someone to keep you safe from men who targeted actresses, men like your father, and yet, you are here, dressed like a character from one of your plays. Now, please, tell me the truth. Where is the baron?” Simon stepped ever closer. “I know he met with d’Auvergne in Jersey. Hasn’t he returned from France? Is something amiss? Why are you alone?”
“You should go,” she said softly, refusing to answer his questions. “Go.”
Again, Simon was met by a defiant mix of stubbornness and sorrow. Then mind-boggling silence. Disgruntled but spurred to action, Simon slapped his hat on his head and began to shove on his gloves. A gentleman wouldn’t have removed his gloves at all, he berated himself. But I am no gentleman. Gentlemen didn’t fixate on married women. And married gentlemen didn’t betray infirm wives, no matter the arrangement.
Oh, his sins were many—too many to count. Damn his eyes! On entering Bedford’s box, a small part of him had held out hope that Gillian still loved him. But he’d chosen his path, and in doing so, he’d lost Gillian forever. Lies and misery separated them now. Hers. His. Bloody hell, they’d never been fated to be together, and nothing he could do or say would change that.
Gillian, Baroness Chauncey had become resourceful, cunning, and ruthless in her dealings with him. He deserved every cutting remark, every heated look. But that would not stop him from discovering the reason for her presence in Town. He’d get to the bottom of it, with or without her help.
Regret rose like a deafening buffer between them as applause ignited the crowd below and in the boxes around them. Lighting in the theater had dimmed. The play had begun. And Nelson was late, as usual, which meant Simon needed to return to his duties.
“Promise me you will not leave until our conversation is finished,” he said as he made his way to the curtained exit.
“I cannot.” She slanted a look at him. “I will not.”
His brows shot up in surprise. “As you wish, but I will be back.”
Holcroft’s Deaf and Dumb began like the metaphor it was—neither character understanding the other, neither ready to accept their true feelings, neither willing to make more sacrifices than had already been made. Gillian stood before him, proud and undaunted with her chin raised and eyes set with unflinching determination.
Simon bowed, barely catching her polite curtsey. “Baroness,” he said stiffly before sweeping the curtain to the side.
She made no sound.
Perhaps it is for the best, eh? his conscience prodded.
Duty linked him to Vice-Admiral Nelson, to a cause greater than flesh. The mission they embarked on together—he and Nelson—organizing a group of mercenaries that would answer to the vice-admiral and act to stop Napoleon’s threat of invasion, depended on total discretion and his complete concentration. As quickly as his instincts had been triggered to follow Gillian, Simon forced her to the back of his mind, turning off his emotions as he exited the box. His heart was not equipped for the gut-wrenching truth that Gillian wanted nothing to do with him. So be it. A man could not turn back the tide.
Simon tapped his cane on the floor of the corridor. Not far from the stairs, a tall gentleman dressed in brilliant gold, powdered hair and face—it was ghastly old-fashioned for so young a person—caught his attention. The foppish marquess obliterated any sense of normalcy from the modern mind, which was exactly what the young fellow wanted. Simon rolled his eyes. Percival Avery, the Marquess of Stanton pushed the limits of disguise as far as any man could and still managed to maintain surprising dignity. How did the man do it?
“Od’s fish, Danbury,” the popinjay called, waving his quizzing glass like a drunken sailor with a bottle of rum. He sauntered closer on loose legs that gave him a swaggering, jaunty gait. “Have you seen a woman in black swishing her bombazine skirts on this level?” He bowed respectfully.
Simon’s brow rose as he bowed in return. Bloody hell, how was he supposed to forget about Gillian if Stanton, in all his outlandish finery, intended to seek her out? He could not forget the man was not a dandy in the real sense but a rake through and through. The irony? The marquess was the son of Rathbone Avery, the fourth Duke of Blendingham, who was a prominent member of the House of Lords. With an aristocratic heritage dating back hundreds of years, Stanton was in the upper echelon of society, the perfect position for a man of means to discern secrets, foil devious pursuits, and champion king and country without anyone being the wiser.
It had been Stanton’s idea to perform the dandy to perfection, much to t
he consternation of his father. He’d fashioned his look after Georgian lords and French kings, even applying a beauty mark aptly positioned on his cheek near the side of his nose. Trained by Chauncey and in line to inherit a seat in the House of Lords, Stanton was one of Simon’s best agents, a firstborn son willing to protect the Crown while performing machinations of status and wealth.
“Marquess,” Simon said with a bow, maintaining his distance so no one would be the wiser about their association. “What business would a man like you have with that chit?”
“Egad!” the marquess exclaimed. “Are you implying something positively scandalous, dear fellow? Because if you are, I’m on board.” He winked.
Jealousy raged within Simon at the thought of Stanton and Gillian alone in Box Three. “You and a mysterious woman—”
“Aha!” Stanton exclaimed, pointing his quizzing glass. “You—”
“Are tantamount to trouble,” Simon finished.
“Folly is a man’s best friend.” The marquess cocked his brow and winked, slanting his gaze to a woman who passed by on the arm of a young man before singling out Simon again. “Do tell.”
Stanton didn’t have an indelicate bone in his body. In reality, the man was eight years Simon’s junior, a rogue of shocking means, and a methodical man with a penchant for protecting those unable to protect themselves. This meant if Gillian needed assistance she was in capable hands. And yet her distrust of Simon himself stung.
“As John Wesley said, ‘Catch on fire with enthusiasm and people will come for miles to watch you burn,’” Stanton said, dropping a hint at his purpose.
The mention of fire inside the Theatre Royal, packed as it was, sent a chill down Simon’s spine. “And is the collective enthusiasm combustible?” he asked, a frisson of concern boring through him.
“Brilliant.” Stanton fanned himself with an effeminate wave, then picked a gilded snuffbox out of his waistcoat, opened the lid, fingered a pinch, and delicately sniffed the tobacco into each nostril.
Get on with it, man!
“I just received my token to the inferno.”
“I have received no such token,” he said, tempering his frustration.
“Ah, that is rather revealing, isn’t it?” Stanton knew about Simon and Gillian’s past. He supposed the comment was meant to dig at his pride. “La, there could be a need for at least a score more to be urgently distributed about. I wouldn’t dally in your pursuit.”
“I see.” Simon understood Stanton’s code. They’d worked on it together for many years in other clandestine missions together. Now they were in league with Nelson and Dundas as Simon put together an extraordinary group of first sons from every walk of life, eager to serve England in any capacity—a group they planned to call Nelson’s Tea, aptly named for the vice-admiral’s penchant for the beverage. Many prospective agents longed for a steady income or the thrill of the hunt; others sought a quick rise in military rank, a political engine known for its agonizing delays. This was the main reason Nelson had come to London—other than speaking in the House of Lords and attending tonight’s performance. “What kind of token do you have?” he asked.
“I can only speculate, you see,” Stanton said, “because the weight of my coin is safely harbored here.” He pointed to his heart.
The fire referred to danger, as related to the previous year’s attempt on the king’s life. The coin, a sovereign, was a token, harbored in Stanton’s heart.
Christ! He was talking about Vice-Admiral Nelson!
Stanton leaned closer and whispered, “Fire will likely erupt this night—” He cut himself off as two men with suspiciously shifty eyes drew near. It was obvious the marquess didn’t want them to overhear their conversation. “If I do not find the skirt I seek . . .” Stanton raised his quizzing glass and shifted his attention to Simon’s cravat, tapping the fabric garnished with an emerald pin. “Been to Weston’s, I see. Capital.”
“Indeed.” Simon opened his mouth to speak but held his tongue, playing along. “If you’ll excuse me, Marquess, I will not delay you any further.” He straightened his cuffs as the two unknown men wearing tan beaver hats nodded and entered Box Four.
“Keep your eyes on those two. Wolves in sheep’s clothing. Frenchies by the look of them.” Stanton’s brow crooked, and his gaze followed the men until they disappeared.
Simon felt the blood drain from his face. “Of course.”
“Have faith,” the marquess said, instantly shifting course. “A man should not be in a hurry unless the building he’s in is burning down.” He made as if to leave, then turned back to Simon. “Oh, and remember: spare nothing when it comes to fashion, my good man.” He spun his quizzing glass around deftly and settled it in his waistcoat. “One’s attire has more power than rhetoric.”
Which truly meant he should keep what is in his jacket—his weapon—close.
“Of course,” Simon said, nodding.
Stanton bowed his head, then straightened. “Remember, dear sir,” he said more loudly, tapping his apparel, “you will never look the aristocrat without a crisply tied cravat.”
Something about the two men had piqued Stanton’s curiosity. But what? Simon had seen the men milling about downstairs and had not noticed anything out of the ordinary.
Simon snarled and shoved fashion and Box Four out of his mind, concentrating on Gillian instead. The marquess had a way of wooing women and seducing information from even the most unsuspecting dolt. His tactics were legendary, which would make him an asset Nelson’s Tea could not do without.
Without a farewell, Stanton sauntered off, peeking in every curtained doorway. He offered apologies to the men in Box Four, then entered Box Three. “Ah!” Simon heard him say elatedly. “There you are, good lady. Let the games begin.” The marquess disappeared inside Bedford’s box.
Deuce it all! What was going on?
Nothing but England matters. Remember that.
In his line of work, any other thought process got one killed. A facade was the order of the day if he wanted to save lives. And thousands of souls were in jeopardy. Every British citizen depended on the vice-admiral’s plan to offset Napoleon’s quest for control over the Channel and the British Isles. Joseph Fouché and Bertrand Barère de Vieuzac were united in their efforts to support Napoleon’s schemes. They would not abandon the self-proclaimed emperor, which meant England was on the brink of war.
And that left him little time to deliberate over personal happiness. Not for Gillian. Not for his wife. And certainly not for himself.
Four
“Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwilling to school. And then the lover . . .”
~William Shakespeare, As You Like It
Gillian sat beside Percival Avery, Marquess Stanton as the curtains parted and actors began breaking into choreographed song and dance. Vice-Admiral Nelson had not yet made his grand entrance.
Stanton leaned close, the intimate confines of Box Three hammering home the reminder that assassins could be collaborating anywhere in the theater. “I thought I’d never get rid of him,” he admitted.
Gillian sighed. “Danbury is not the worst of our problems.”
“That’s what I’ve always loved about you, Baroness. You get to the point.” He smiled, seeming riveted. “Now, how so?”
“I-I—” She choked on the words, unable to reveal the truth, to tell the marquess that Lucien was dead.
Stanton’s eyes flashed strangely as if he sensed how close she was to collapse. “Do you like what Holland has done with the place?” She had no desire to debate architecture or Henry Holland’s design, but she knew what the marquess was doing. The sly fellow sought to calm her by changing the subject, and his tactic was succeeding, putting her at ease. “Personally, I prefer ‘Old Drury,’” he said. “These acoustics frustrate me. I can barely hear what the actors are saying.” His lips twitched as he pointed to the horseshoe-shaped box
es, the lacy hem of his sleeve dangling over his fingers. “It amazes me what the owners will sacrifice to bring in three thousand paying customers. Have you heard that Drury Lane is bigger than any other place in Europe now?”
“Stanton . . .” Gillian swallowed back tears. “I am not here to enjoy the theater.”
He lowered his hand to hers and squeezed. “Perhaps a little culture would do you a bit of good. You seem—” he studied her, his expression falling “—crushed.”
Unable to hold his compassionate gaze any longer, she looked away. “My decision to come to London was not based on pleasure.”
“In any case,” he said, continuing his attempt to distract her, “I beg you to come again when the stage is set for boating. Performing a sea battle below with actual water is quite the technological marvel. I never would have thought it possible myself, and yet, I have seen it with my own eyes.” He stared at the lone portrait of a boy hanging center stage, a puzzled expression distorting his handsome, powdered features. “Is that supposed to be Darlemont’s son, the mute child he left for dead on a Parisian street?”
Oh, how their lives, what they sought to accomplish, paralleled Darlemont’s palace of secrets, suspicion, and deceit. They both played parts in a charade: Stanton portraying the fop to perfection when nothing could be further from the truth, and Gillian trying to finish what her husband had started. The irony wasn’t lost on her, but it gave her the time she needed to compose herself.
She surveyed the crowd below. The audience was focused on the lead actress. The woman’s name escaped Gillian, and she chastised herself for not paying attention to the introductions, especially when, as a former actress, she understood the importance of recognition. If she’d had the time and if she’d been on an errand of amusement, she’d have researched the playbook more thoroughly. What she did not miss, however, was the actress’s perfectly clear singing voice, albeit seemingly distant on the massive stage.
My Lord Rogue Page 4