The hair rose on the back of Gillian’s neck as she searched the theater for any hint of criminal behavior. Every seat in the house was occupied, save for a few inattentive patrons milling about and refusing to wait until intermission to speculate on the particulars of the crowd. The entire setting was perfectly tuned for a malicious attack by Napoleon’s gendarmes.
She bit her lip to stifle a maddening scream, feeling the walls of the box closing in. The tell must have alerted Stanton to her distress.
“Out with it.” Stanton gave her hand another squeeze. “Why are you here? What is so urgent that you couldn’t wait for Chauncey to return from France? You know it isn’t safe for a woman to travel alone.”
“I had no choice.” Bile rose in the back of her throat. “The baron is . . . is dead.”
Stanton’s mouth gaped open. “The devil you say!” he said in a whispered rush. Muscles flexed in his jaw, and she feared his teeth would crack by the force. “It’s not possible. I refuse to believe it.”
“Possible . . . and sadly, true,” she said, the emotions she’d tried to shutter welling to the surface. “I would never lie about such a thing.”
Stanton released her hand. He cleared his throat and adjusted his cravat, as if not knowing what to do or say. “I do not—cannot—believe it.” His dark eyes hooded like a hawk’s. “What happened?” A faint tremor shook his voice.
Gillian raised a quivering hand to wipe an errant tear off her cheek. “Lucien never believed King George’s attempted assassins had worked alone.” She lowered her voice to a soft whisper, conscious of the fact that it might carry in the theater. “He suspected the new order in France was responsible and that Napoleon had turned his attention on England once more. As you know, Lucien met with Philippe d’Auvergne in Jersey, who’d stumbled upon another assassination plot, one that would destroy all of England’s hopes.”
“Do they plan to try to kill the king again?” His voice was thick and unsteady.
“No,” she said. “Another.”
Stanton leaned so close she could smell his sandalwood-and-spice scent. “Who?”
“Lucien said . . .” She fought back images of Lucien lying dead before her. “I—”
“What happened?” he asked, sober as a priest. “Who is the intended target?”
“Lucien,” she continued, not answering his question, “would not be deterred, no matter the danger to himself. I’m here because of what he told me on his dying breath.”
“You were there? Did they—” He took hold of her hand. “Have you been hurt?”
“No.” She shook her head. “His killer did not suspect Polaris would bring me to him. I took the bastard by surprise and killed him before he could . . .” She covered her mouth with her free hand. “But I was too late, Stanton. Lucien was already mortally wounded.”
Stanton’s expression hardened. “What did he say?”
She dropped her hand, embarrassed at how it shook uncontrollably. “Napoleon’s quest will not be complete until he has dominion over England. Fouché was at the heart of King George’s assassination attempt.”
Stanton leaned back in his chair. “I was there, remember? James Hadfield was convicted of the deed. We caught him red-handed. His guilt and his insanity was proven by trial. I have always agreed Bannister Truelock, that religious fanatic, drove Hadfield to believe he was bringing about the second coming of Christ by eradicating the monarchy,” he said, his tone laced with sarcasm.
But there was more Stanton didn’t know. “Bannister Truelock may or may not have influenced Hadfield; that point is moot now as they are both in Bedlam. D’Auvergne told Lucien that the head wounds Hadfield had received after the Battle of Tourcoing were part of a process to condition Hadfield and then return him to England to kill the king.”
Stanton’s dark eyes sharpened. “Did d’Auvergne provide proof of this?”
She stared at him, aghast. Lucien had died trying to deliver this message. How dare Stanton accuse her husband of leading them false!
“There is to be another attempt this very night,” she said succinctly. Nothing would stop her from sharing what Lucien had told her now. She’d ridden night and day to save the Baron of the Nile’s life, stopping only long enough to obtain fresh horses. “Lucien barely escaped France with his life, Stanton. When he arrived in England, he was ruthlessly attacked, surviving only long enough to confess that vital information to me. Soon after h-he . . . I fled. There was no time to bury him before Fouché’s men gave chase.”
Stanton grasped Gillian by the wrist. His touch was gentle, assuring, which was contrary to the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed and his eyes blazed with unbridled anger. “You did what you had to do.” His expression was pained. “Now . . . did he provide you with anything specific, dates, coordinates?”
“Admiral Nelson.”
“Admiral Nelson?” Stanton asked. He paused, momentarily speechless, and then cleared his throat. “Is that all he said?”
She shook her head. “Lord Nelson is the intended target.” Her gaze settled on Stanton’s dark eyes, stark against his powdered skin. Emotions she recognized all too well—doubt, anger, horror—flashed across his face. Lucien had paid a deadly price for this information. “According to d’Auvergne’s letter, Napoleon is campaigning in Egypt and Austria but has a plan to activate the Armée des côtes de l’Océan. Apparently, Napoleon believes that if he can neutralize Admiral Nelson and the English fleet, his own will be unstoppable.”
“That plan has been in place for at least twenty years.” Stanton’s body tensed, and he inhaled sharply. “Never doubt a good plan. Where will he bottleneck his fleet?”
“Italy, Belgium, and France.”
“But Nelson made a mockery of Boulogne,” he said.
“Things are not as they were months ago, I’m afraid.”
“Well if that doesn’t make me fly to the time of day!” He cast an irritated glance toward the stage, then turned back to her. “That isn’t the worst of it, is it?”
“No, it’s not,” she said, summoning her inner strength. “I arranged to meet you here because Fouché’s men plan to assassinate Admiral Nelson tonight.”
Stanton’s brow cocked at an odd angle, and his gaze narrowed on her. “Tonight?”
“Yes.” She allowed herself a nostalgic smile. “My husband counted you as one of few trusted friends. He specifically sent me to you, Stanton, because he knew you could stop this if I got to you in time.”
“If what you say is true, Danbury must also be told.”
“Yes, of course,” she agreed. “The opera has just begun, and Nelson hasn’t yet arrived. You have time to warn him. My one request is that you wait to leave this box until I am gone.”
Stanton grabbed both Gillian’s hands. “This is not the time for theatrics.” His touch, while gentler than before, allowed no escape. “No one is suggesting that you face Danbury alone, m’dear.” He paused. “Lucien is gone; you need a protector now.”
He was right. The gendarmes were after her, but she couldn’t tell Stanton that. Vice-Admiral Nelson needed everyone to guard his back.
Her world had been torn out from under her, and she was more afraid now than she’d ever been. Lucien had given her life purpose. As a widow, certain lifestyles opened up for her—that of a dowager, governess, or courtesan, or she could even remarry—but none of it appealed. She wanted her old life back, the comfort Lucien’s presence gave her and the freedom she’d been given to live in a man’s world with a husband who’d educated her on weaponry and books.
Candlelight flickered on the impressive stage. “I should go,” she said.
“You cannot run away.” Stanton’s mouth curved with tenderness, disarming her. “Chauncey wouldn’t want you to.”
She stared into Stanton’s inquisitive eyes, eyes that hid an elusive secret she’d had a hand in masterminding. “Careful,” she said. “Do not presume to tell me what I can or cannot do.”
“I presume nothing. H
owever,” he said, testing the lace at the cuff of his sleeve, “I saw the look on Danbury’s face after he left this box. What do you think he will do when he discovers you are responsible for over half of Chauncey’s successful missions in France or that you trained me?”
She didn’t want to find out. “It isn’t wise to threaten me, Marquess.”
“I’m well aware.” He harrumphed. “If you are smart—and I know you are—you’d tell him.”
“I came here to deliver Lucien’s last words, nothing more. Take my message to Danbury,” she said, her pride giving way to duty.
“There is no reason for alarm. I assure you,” the marquess said, “Admiral Nelson is not in danger here.”
“And neither was King George,” she countered. “Now, there’s no time to lose. You must report to Danbury all I have said.”
The marquess stood and bowed with a flourish of his hand. She suspected it was to appease anyone who happened to be watching them more than to be chivalrous. “I will go, but Danbury is a stubborn man. He will insist on speaking with you again.”
“Rest assured, I am in no danger now.” Gillian looked straight ahead, hating the bitter taste the lie left in her mouth. If she drew attention to herself, she could divert the vice-admiral’s would-be assassins until the marquess and Simon could stop them. “Saving the admiral’s life is all that matters now.”
“You matter, Baroness.”
Stanton’s declaration startled her. He lifted her veil and placed his palm against her cheek. It was an alarmingly kind gesture, but anyone who took note of it would be led to speculate as to the cause of the intimacy.
“You sacrificed everything to warn us,” he said. “As Chauncey’s friend, I invite you to come to my townhouse. I’ll see you safely settled from this day forward.” He held up his hand when she opened her mouth to disagree. “No objections. I owe it to him.”
She nodded. The marquess was right, of course. But she couldn’t think about that now.
Gooseflesh prickled her skin as her senses came alive. Danger lurked everywhere: in the boxes beside her where foreign words floated to her ears on infrequent musical pauses, in the boxes across from her where innumerable opera glasses perched on inquisitive noses, on the stage, and in the audience seated below.
Stanton lowered her veil and reached for her wrap. He draped it around her shivering shoulders. She accepted the cloak numbly, knowing without doubt that the chill she was experiencing wasn’t from the cold but from costlier ache. Lucien was gone.
She bowed her head and gathered what little courage she had left, for she had no intention of accompanying the marquess to his townhouse. “I’ll do as you say, on one condition.” She smiled. “Mention nothing of my whereabouts to Lord Danbury.”
Stanton nodded warily. “He’ll ask.”
“That isn’t your concern,” she said.
“But it is. You’ve put me in a precarious situation, Baroness.”
“I am sorry for that. Truly, I am.” Her chest tightened, and she was at once besieged by a sensation that she was being watched. She quickly forgot the marquess and, blinking back tears, reached for the opera glasses sitting nearby. She raised them to her eyes and studied the stage, then arrowed the lens at the boxes across from her. When nothing appeared out of the ordinary, she glanced over the audience until, almost by instinct, she was drawn to Simon. He stood with his back against the wall, a hand on his cane, and one knee bent, his agile body tilted toward the exit. Ever on guard, he was waiting on Vice-Admiral Nelson’s arrival. Feeling trapped, she said, “You must go now. Warn him.”
Stanton touched her shoulder. “Careful, lest you give yourself away, m’dear.”
“What the devil do you mean?” she asked breathlessly, lowering the glasses and turning to look at him.
“If Fouché’s men followed you here, or if they are lying in wait to achieve devious ends, you draw attention to yourself by showing interest in the crowd. You are supposed to be a widow, remember?” His throat bobbed, as if he was strangled on his words. He took several steps backward. “Oh dear, I didn’t mean—”
The lead actress stopped mid-aria. Violins screeched to a halt. The audience began to murmur, loudly turning in their seats to stare at the opening of the amphitheater.
There, in all his military splendor, was the gallant Vice-Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson. He stood in the vaulted doorway, his face animated and confident. His mistress, Lady Emma Hamilton, decorated his left arm.
Gillian swallowed. It was beginning . . .
Five
“Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard . . .”
~William Shakespeare, As You Like It
“Good God! We’ve taken too long. You must go,” she exclaimed, turning only to discover Stanton had already left the box.
They could not fail. She’d promised Lucien she’d do everything within her power to save this great man of England. But perhaps Simon was right. She was a liar, incapable of love. She’d given up on the man she had truly loved and had married another, diligently obeying her vows, but she had not loved Lucien the way a man deserved to be loved. She’d struggled to forget Simon, and what’s more, she hadn’t listened to her instincts. She should have insisted on accompanying Lucien to France. Perhaps if she had, he’d still be alive. But if Lucien hadn’t gone to France, they might have never learned of Fouché’s plot to kill Nelson this very night.
What did it matter now? She couldn’t change the past. But she could save Vice-Admiral Nelson.
Her senses sharpened. She reached beneath her mourning garb and retrieved her pistol. She searched the crowd below and the boxes above. Everything still appeared normal, but normalcy was merely an illusion. If they weren’t quick enough to foil an attempt on Nelson’s life, all would be lost.
The vice-admiral was in plain sight, a perfect target. Would Stanton reach Simon and his men before it was too late? If not, she would have to warn Nelson herself somehow.
Her heart thumped wildly in her chest, her pulse a deafening, thunderous, roaring tide in her ears as an unethical idea made itself known to her. She was an acclaimed actress . . . If she could draw attention to herself, it was possible—only just—that her display could confuse the enemy long enough for the others to stop the attack. However, it would almost certainly ruin a dearly loved and thoroughly maligned woman’s image—that of the vice-admiral’s much-admired, steadfast wife, Frances.
Gillian swallowed and watched as Nelson stood erect, poised on the balls of his feet, contentedly absorbing the attention his delayed entrance provided. He was surrounded by three aides-de-camp. It was an unprecedented number for a man of his rank, but it was widely rumored to be compensation for the loss of his right arm and his partial blindness. He seemed to bask in the sea of acclamations echoing throughout the crowded amphitheater as the audience broke into applause. Calm in action, unreadable, he exhibited an illusion of calm to the public eye. Simon had once told her no one who served England was ever at ease. If that was the case, Nelson had to be on edge.
Nelson turned to his left and inclined his head to look down at Lady Hamilton. His smile revealed his generous, jovial nature and clear affection for the woman. The gesture tugged at Gillian’s heartstrings. The beautiful and brown-haired Lady Hamilton looked impressively fit after delivering a baby in January, a child whispered to be Nelson’s. She’d given him what his wife, Fanny, could not and had raised herself in Nelson’s regard over and above any scandal their illicit affair produced. Might that have been her and Simon’s fate if Simon hadn’t convinced her to leave London with Lucien?
A knot of unwelcome tension gripped her as she observed the pair. What if Fouché’s target wasn’t Nelson at all, but the woman Nelson loved? She could think of no better way to break a man’s spirit than to take from him that which he cherished most. If Nelson’s permanent injuries had not succee
ded in disarming the vice-admiral’s spirit, would watching the woman he loved die in his arms have a different effect?
She didn’t want to find out. A hush settled over the amphitheater as anticipation of another kind filled the air. Would Lord Nelson speak publicly? Gillian had no time to lose. She set the pistol on the side table nearby and leaned over the balcony, completely aware of the social repercussions that were sure to follow for the woman who the British people labeled “the right Lady Nelson.” But bringing Lord Nelson’s wife into this couldn’t be helped. Nothing but saving Nelson mattered now.
“Nelson and Brontë,” she shouted above the din in the most unladylike fashion. Yelling in public was never done, and her behavior would trigger Nelson’s safeguards. In those three words, she’d identified herself as Lady Nelson, a woman who knew the vice-admiral signed every correspondence Nelson and Brontë, in honor of the title he’d earned in Sicily, Duke of Brontë. The general public wasn’t aware of this, which would immediately earn Nelson’s curiosity. “A gallant sight you are, standing there with a deadly blade close to your side.”
Gillian prayed he understood her code: Prepare for battle, my lord.
A jaw-dropping hush overtook the crowd. The attention decreased the likelihood that Nelson’s assassins would pick this opportune moment to strike.
“Dead foul!” The vice-admiral shouted, giving a quick nod to his aides, who surrounded Lady Hamilton. Without missing a beat, he bellowed, “Black does not become you, Fanny.”
Stanton appeared at the auditorium entrance. He hurried to Simon’s side, whispered in his ear, and then pointed to her. Simon’s composure quickly altered.
Gillian continued the distraction to give Simon and Stanton and their guards enough time to locate Fouché’s men. “It is Lady Nelson to all who know me here.” A cheer rose up in the crowd at her ribald response, emboldening her. “I mourn for you, my dear husband. And if you value your life, you will unsheathe your blade.”
My Lord Rogue Page 5