Protect Lady Hamilton. You are both in grave danger.
“Fanny,” Nelson replied, his baritone rising crisp and clear the way she’d imagined it would when calling to topmen aboard one of his ships. “I am sworn to defend all that I hold dear, including you.”
“And defend those close to you, you must, my lord!” she said, nodding to Lady Hamilton. The danger to you and your lady is very real. “Make haste. You may turn a blind eye, but do not deafen your ears.”
“I have sacrificed many things for my country, but I have not lost my hearing.” Nelson curled his upper lip emphatically. “To be sure, there is no doing anything without trying it first.”
Was he baiting his potential assassins? The vain man!
She scanned the audience, raised her gloved fist, shook it theatrically, and then placed it over her bosom to stall for time. The act symbolized a laborious and painful struggle going on inside her, melodrama the audience expected at the Theatre Royal.
“My heart’s treasure, I am your Mrs. Billington, and this—” she spread her arms wide “—is my Love in a Village.” Billington was a Protestant actress whose husband was struck dead when Vesuvius erupted after her performance of the opera to a Catholic audience in Naples.
“I do not seek God’s displeasure,” Gillian said as Lady Nelson. “But your vanity, your love of glory and country . . . it grieves me sore. See how I mourn? Beware this night, my lord, for I fear it will get the better of you.”
You are marked for death.
Her Shakespearean élan drew rowdy applause.
“You, my dear, have taken devotion to a questionable level.” Nelson’s voice boomed with unique force. “As you see—” he postured for the crowd “—I am alive and well.”
Gillian tried to restrain her shock. He was baiting his assassins!
She cast her gaze around the well-lit theater again. “No one knows when Vesuvius will erupt,” she responded, as movement in the box to her right caught her attention, making her skittish. “Beware the climb to loftier heights. No matter what befalls us, keep your feet firmly on the ground.”
They might be upstairs. Be ready.
The crowd murmured in collective shock before cheering loudly.
Gillian curtsied, then backed into the shadows as a chair overturned in Box Four, the box next to hers. Gathering her wits, she put her ear to the wall and listened. There, she overheard enough French to put her into action. “Tuez la!”
Kill her!
Scuffling footsteps sounded, and Gillian lifted her skirts and removed the dagger she’d strapped to her leg. Quickly, she retrieved her pistol, wrapping her fingers around it. Now doubly armed, her nerves afire and anticipating the unexpected, she blew out the candles in Box Three.
Soon after, a man shoved his way inside. Likely disoriented by the darkness, he paused long enough that she figured he was letting his eyes adjust.
“What do you want?” she asked, thankful her dark clothing helped hide her. “This is a private box.”
“A benefit to me, eh?” the man said in a French accent.
Another man whispered through the curtain, “Tuez la.”
A knife gleamed in a fraction of a second before disappearing again into the darkness. “I’ll take your voice, little songbird.”
Gillian raised her pistol and cocked the trigger, gripping her dagger with her other hand. “Don’t come any closer.”
She heard him stop, his intake of breath, and felt him studying her, probably deciding whether or not she would truly kill him.
“I will not hesitate,” she said, though they needed at least one of the men alive in order to glean information from them.
“Silly fool,” he said, eyes narrowing. “What if you miss?”
Good God! What then? She couldn’t possibly fire her weapon without injuring theatergoers in Box Two or possibly the Prince of Wales’s box, creating panic below.
“Dépêche-toi!” the other man said. Hurry up! “The militia is coming.”
He took an aggressive step toward her. “I will have satisfaction.” He raised his blade.
She had no choice. She ducked, lowered to the ground, and swiped her dagger in a downward arc, slicing into his thighs. She scrambled to rise so she could sink the dagger deep into his chest if he came at her again.
Her aim was precise, however, and he howled, stumbled for purchase, and then fell over the box rail to the crowd below.
Screams rent the air. As she feared, the audience panicked.
“Botheration,” she mumbled. That had not been something she’d even considered. Cautiously, she pulled back the curtain. Her attacker’s partner appeared to be gone. She looked down the corridor, noting a large group of militiamen moving briskly toward the stairs.
Where to go? What to do? Gillian caught a slight movement to her left. There, her attacker’s partner appeared. He held her gaze for agonizingly long seconds. He had not vanished as she’d first assumed but had returned to Box Four. Now that he’d been spotted by her, he attempted to blend in as several more gentlemen exited their boxes.
Not one to concede defeat—especially after what these men had tried to do, both to her and to Nelson—Gillian moved quickly after the Frenchman, thankful his tan beaver hat stood out in the crowd as she followed him down the back stairs. At the bottom of the landing, there was a door that led to Russell Street. Did he have transportation waiting for him there?
He glanced over his shoulder, and she quickly ducked behind a column. She counted to three before bolting after him, her heart hammering behind her ribs. Drury Lane’s acting manager and actor John Philip Kemble allowed Nelson’s would-be assassin to pass. He was ushering people out the door to prevent the frightened audience from creating a riot. Women wailed, and men shouted loudly, as fear that someone else would die this night drove them near the alcove exit where her quarry disappeared out the door.
Kemble spotted her. “Baroness!” he shouted, motioning to her with his hand.
She didn’t have time to converse with Kemble. If she intended to catch the Frenchman, she’d have to avoid her old friend. Besides, the fact that he’d let the assassin go was something she couldn’t think about yet. She rushed past the tall, somber actor, her heart drumming against her rib cage a she bolted out of reach.
“Brava, mia dolcissima,” he called after her.
Outside, there was a collective murmur as heads bobbed and people turned to stare. She ignored the questioning looks, instead searching for the man in the tan beaver hat, who seemed to have disappeared again.
Gunfire erupted nearby, inciting the crowd into action. In the chaos, one hand clamped over her mouth, while an arm grasped her beneath her ribs. She bucked, kicking out her legs to ward off her attacker, but it was no use. She was pulled back toward the mews.
“This is for Claude, the man you killed inside the theater,” a voice hissed against her ear. “And Mercier.” He squeezed her tighter. “The man you killed in the woods.”
Her lungs seized, but she tried not to panic as she felt her life begin to fade.
Relax. Let him think he has won, then attack.
Gillian lowered her arms, going limp.
One . . . Two . . . Three . . .
She stomped her heel on the top of the man’s foot, startling him long enough to loosen his grip. Then she drove her elbow back into his stomach. He doubled over. She broke free and ran into another man’s arms.
Had she miscounted? How many assassins were there?
She pulled back her fist, prepared to strike.
“Run, Gillian!” Simon ordered as he suddenly appeared and pushed her behind him.
“Simon . . . these men. They killed Lucien,” she cried. “Lucien is dead.”
Simon stilled and glanced at her for a fraction of a second. “Dead?”
She grabbed his arm. “Yes.”
He eased her away from him and withdrew a sword from his cane with deadly calm. He advanced on the cornered assassin, discarding the silver-handled sheath b
eside him. “This,” he said, “is for the baron and his wife.” Simon thrust the sword into the man’s heart. “No mercy.”
Gillian couldn’t believe the ferocity of Simon’s actions. They had needed to interrogate this man. She blinked and drew her head back stiffly before turning to run. Russell Street had changed little since she’d been gone, but she had changed, her view of the world had changed. She had to get away from all this death.
“Come,” Simon said, appearing beside her. In her disoriented state, she allowed him to steer her toward a nearby carriage.
She seized Simon’s arm once more. “This isn’t over.”
“No, it isn’t.” He hailed the driver. “Bolton Street.”
“Aye, gov’na,” the hackney replied.
Simon opened the carriage door. “Quick! Get inside. It isn’t safe for you here. God only knows how many French sympathizers you might have angered in the theater tonight.”
She glanced around her. “Where is the admiral? Did he escape injury? How did you get here so fast?”
He didn’t answer, just continued urging her into the carriage. “Come on,” he said.
Knowing she was safer with Simon than she was alone on the streets, Gillian agreed. She stepped into the carriage and took a seat on the squabs. Simon followed. He tapped on the ceiling and the equipage jerked into motion.
“The admiral,” she tried again, “is he . . . ?”
“Rest assured, the admiral and his lady are safe, thanks to you.”
Gillian nodded, her heartbeat pulsing in her neck. Surely, after all she’d been through—the danger, the horror—she could finally relax. But she couldn’t. The man she’d once loved sat before her. She tucked her hands in the folds of her skirts to hide how badly they shook.
Simon leaned forward until a strand of moonlight illuminated his expressionless face. “Why didn’t you tell me Admiral Nelson’s life was in jeopardy?”
She occupied herself by looking out the window. She’d obeyed her husband in all things, done what she’d promised, and taken the necessary risks to save a man vital to England’s success. That was what she and Lucien had always done. They’d followed orders without asking why. But Simon didn’t know she was a spy—not yet.
She suspected Lucien had sent her to Stanton because he knew a meeting between her and Simon might cloud both of their judgments, and he’d be right indeed. Even after five years, she felt her heartstrings stir an unruly awareness in her body and soul. ’Twas a feeling she’d fight to her bitter end. Nothing good could come of it.
His shoulders tensed as he tightened his grip on the handle his cane. “Don’t you trust me anymore?”
Heat rose to her face, and she inhaled a stabilizing breath. He frowned, his brows level above his searching eyes. She knew full well that without Simon’s intervention, she might be dead on the street this very moment.
“I used to trust you,” she readily admitted.
Simon nodded. “I broke your trust . . .” His admission settled over her like a blanket of snow—cold, exact, haunting. “But I did not lie about my circumstances in the end. I confessed the truth about my betrothal.”
At his voice, heat thundered through her veins against her wishes. She swallowed. “Yes. You did. And the vital lesson I learned has sustained me for many years. One can hardly believe the most trustworthy of people these days.”
Gillian glanced away. It did neither of them any good to dwell on the damage done to their relationship. Enough time had passed that she certainly didn’t know Simon anymore. Nor did she want to. Hadn’t she already been through enough in the past two days? She was thoroughly spent and eager for a safe place to rest her weary head. She didn’t want to argue.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “You didn’t come to see an opera, did you?”
“I—” Her hands began to tremble. “What you believe doesn’t matter, my lord.”
“Everything about you matters to me.”
His leather-and-spice scent took her back to another time and place. His splendidly proportioned body owned the seat across from her, making her remember things that would only do her emotional harm. How frustrating it was to be confined together in such tight quarters where his knee brushed against hers!
His touch sent another scorching heat below her skirts to places a decent woman—let alone a widow—dared not acknowledge. She closed her eyes, trying to put his devilishly handsome face out of her mind. But like a bird in a gilded cage, she was good and truly caught.
The carriage wheels jostled over the cobblestones. What was she to do now? She bit back several tremulous gasps.
“Forgive me,” he said suddenly, snapping her out of her doldrums.
Her gaze locked with his. “For what, my lord?”
“For my past indiscretions.”
She grimaced. This was exactly what she’d feared. Being alone with Simon and being forced to relive the past, to acknowledge her feelings for him.
“For the way I disappointed you,” he said. She looked away as Simon cleared his throat. “Do not shut me out, Gillian. May we please talk like two civilized people?”
“We were more than that,” she said, turning toward him again, “and you know it.”
“I know . . .” His expression softened. “There are many things still left unsaid between us.”
“Your confession was quite clear,” she disagreed. “I need no further explanation.”
“I meant—” he cleared his throat “—only to discover what happened to the baron.” Simon regarded her closely. The intensity of his stare was breaking down carefully constructed walls she’d erected around her heart in order to fulfill the vow she’d made to Lucien. “How did he die?”
Her brow furrowed. “I am weary, Simon.”
He nodded. “And I am trying to be considerate. But I cannot know what kind of trouble you are in unless you tell me what happened in Kent.” He removed his hat and set it on the seat beside him. “Gillian, the past is gone. Times as they are, I take it upon myself to think only of today and what tomorrow will bring. I am concerned for your safety. I mean nothing untoward. Please tell me what happened.”
How did she break the news to this man, who’d insisted she marry a man of Lucien’s caliber? She was barely able to muster enough strength to breathe. It was too much too soon.
“My husband,” she said on a half breath, “is dead.”
“And I killed a man because of it.” Simon leaned forward and perched on the edge of his seat. His dark earnest eyes sought hers as he quickly took her hands in his. “I’m sorry. I know you well enough to know you would never interrupt a performance unless it was life or death.” The steady cadence of his voice began to calm her. She yearned for comfort, for someone to talk to about what she’d seen and done. “That was a very brave thing you just did.”
Was it? She’d killed two men—one intentionally, and one while trying to protect herself. She would have to answer for that someday.
“No braver than Lucien going to France to retrieve information that would save the admiral’s life in the first place,” she said. Lucien’s determination to beat the sodding Frenchman Fouché at his own game had come to an end. She placed her hand over her heart. The fool organ fought for control over her body, almost stealing her breath. “My husband was murdered, Simon. He died . . . in my arms.”
“Christ!” He studied her for a disquieting moment, then squeezed her hand, his comforting touch eroding her defenses. “Forgive me, but the baron was a master spy with the willpower of a saint. I assume he was followed?”
“Yes.” Followed and hunted down like a worthless animal. “His horse returned to our home and then took me to him.”
Simon chuckled. “He never would tell me how he trained Polaris.”
“I am thankful the cunning beast took me straight to him. Had I gotten there any later . . .” She gazed into his eyes. “I cannot bear to think of what it would have been like for Lucien to die alone. Or that he would have di
ed in vain.” Her words drifted off as sadness flooded her.
I cannot fall to pieces in front of him. I will not.
“Did he suffer?” His voice exuded deadly calm, but it was an illusion. Gillian knew Simon well enough to know he took great pride in hiding the depth of his emotions.
Tears filled her eyes. “He’d been shot in the stomach.”
Simon flinched. “A man can linger in agony for hours with such a wound.”
“By the time I found him, he’d lost too much blood. God knows how long it had been since he’d been wounded . . . There was blood in Polaris’s mane.” Once those words came, she was unable to stop. She told Simon everything—how she’d found Lucien, how she’d killed his attacker, a man the stranger in the alley had called Mercier—trying to purge herself of the horror. The only way her assailant could have known was if he’d followed Gillian and her maid, Cora, to London. “We were followed. I am certain of it.”
Simon quietly listened. He lifted her veil and tossed her hat aside, cradling her face in his hands. His thumbs caressed her cheeks, gently soothing her. And when wild grief finally racked her body and she bowed over, slumping in despair, he moved to sit beside her and wrapped her in his arms.
Gillian clung to him then, burrowing against his hard-muscled chest, absorbing his strength as her heartache and pain spilled forth. A spy always knew the end might come, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of Lucien’s death, the anguish and the loss she’d feel.
He held her to him, one hand in her hair, the other against the small of her back. It felt natural—right somehow. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, and you’re exhausted,” he said, killing her with kindness. “Where will you go now? What will you do?”
She pulled away and sat back, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. It was time she faced that her life would never be the same. There was nothing right about the way she was drawn to Simon. She forced a smile. “What any widow does, I suppose, when the man she relied on is gone.”
“Forgive me,” he said, reaching out to take her hand in his, “I am not schooled on these matters, and thankfully so. What does a widow do?”
My Lord Rogue Page 6