His entreaty sank deep into her spirit. Yet, fearing for her mortal soul, Gillian recoiled from the man she’d once loved and lost twice now. She wasn’t too far gone to presume that any romantic notions she’d once had could materialize. After all, Simon was still married.
Screams of frustration welled in the back of her throat, and a tide of weariness and despair took hold. “Where is this carriage going?”
“Number Eleven Bolton Street,” he said.
Bolton Street wasn’t on a main thoroughfare, but rather, it branched off Piccadilly. She shook her head to clear it, grabbed her hat, and plunked it atop her head, positioning the skewed veil over her face to keep him from seeing her clearly. “I should return to Kent.”
Nausea washed over her. What was he thinking? She needed to get out of the carriage as soon as possible. Simon lived at Number Seventeen Curzon Street. Traveling with him to places unknown wasn’t a good idea, especially in her present state.
“Kent?” He shook his head. “It isn’t safe for you there. Not anymore.”
She shrank back, astounded by the sincerity in Simon’s voice. “Who are you to decide my fate?”
“What I mean to say is this,” he began again, slow and smooth. “More men will be sent to finish Fouché’s work. If you return to Kent, it will not take long for anyone to trace you back there. After your courageous display inside the Theatre Royal, I have no doubt you are now on their list. No, my sweet. You cannot go home. That is the first place Fouché’s men will look for you.”
A bitter cold despair consumed her. She and Lucien had made their life in Kent. “But Lucien . . .” she said. “There was no time to . . . I left him lying in the wood, Simon! He deserves a proper funeral and burial.”
Simon stiffened and then nodded. “And he shall get one.” His tone was edged with steel but oddly gentle. “I give you my word as a gentleman.”
“Gentleman or no, I am no longer your concern,” she reminded him.
His gaze softened as it met hers. “If not mine, then whose?”
Six
“Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice . . .”
~William Shakespeare, As You Like It
Who would protect the baroness if Simon did not? She had no family left to her credit, and the man who’d taken care of her was dead. But that wasn’t what shocked him the most. Somehow, Gillian had possessed the wherewithal to miraculously kill two assassins and incite another to attempt to kill her in public.
“How did you manage it, Gillian?” The awe in his voice gave too much away and didn’t properly express his concern.
“Manage what, my lord?” she had the audacity to ask as she moved to the opposite seat.
The carriage paused momentarily and then jolted forward, horses clip-clopping once more on the cobblestone streets as the carriage made its way toward their destination—his newly outfitted townhouse on Bolton Street in Mayfair.
“We are not in the theater, Gillian. Don’t play coy with me.” Fate had thrown them together once more, and the old masks needed to be cast aside. If anyone in this world cared about her, it was Simon. He waited patiently for her to answer. She didn’t. “How did you evade Nelson’s assassins?”
“Practice,” she said simply.
Her confession vibrated through him. She was a spy? The baron had tricked him!
But it all made sense now—the ease with which Chauncey had collected information at soirees, the logistics of being in two places at one time. Damn the man’s bones for bringing Gillian into his dangerous life!
Looking back now, Simon realized he’d been a fool. In his quest to protect Gillian, he’d arranged for her to marry a French expatriate, a spy whose forays into France only increased her chances of being put in harm’s way, of being used as leverage against Chauncey. Is that why the baron had recruited and trained Gillian? The only reason she had been able to escape Fouché’s men was because her husband had taught her how to survive in a world of espionage and deceit. It made her far more valuable and more unlike any other woman Simon had ever known.
Over the past five years, he’d tried to forget Gillian. He’d even convinced himself he’d done the right thing by her. He was a man of honor who valued promises, and he’d promised to love and protect her until the day he died. But he had broken that vow by agreeing to marry another woman, a woman he didn’t love, for his family’s sake. He’d tried to move on. Thought he had, in fact. Now he understood his brother, Byron, the Duke of Throckmorton’s tortured existence. Rock, as Simon called his brother, had never been the same since his beloved wife, Lady Olivia Throckmorton, had died at the hands of pirates. He had nearly lost his daughter, Lady Constance, in the same tragedy.
The thought of losing the only woman he’d ever loved, as Rock had, chilled him to his marrow. “You could have fallen out of that box to your death,” he pointed out.
Streetlamps flickered as they passed, and tension thickened inside the carriage.
She clenched her jaw. “But I did not.”
Her rebellion terrified him. It meant she was numb to danger, likely having faced it many a time and come out on the winning end. And her refusal to let him back into her life when she needed him most was a prime example of how much more independent—and stubborn—she’d become. He simply could not bear to lose Gillian twice. But that was what awaited him if he let her leave. He knew he couldn’t stop her if it was what she truly wanted, but she was in danger. Gone was the stiff, unyielding chit he’d met in 1795 during a political fiasco of a play, Venice Preserv’d produced by Sheridan and Kemble.
“You have no right,” she said, breaking the silence, “to march back into my life and take control of it. I assure you, I am capable of taking care of myself.”
“I’ve borne witness to that effect.” Simon frowned. “I never meant to imply otherwise. It takes admirable skill to outwit one’s enemy.”
“One simply has to know who the enemy is,” she said.
Simon stared at her, transfixed. Chauncey had been a good man, an even better agent. He’d also been one of Simon’s most trusted confidants. They’d worked together on numerous cases, the most memorable of which was James Hadfield’s assassination attempt on King George III, and more recently with d’Auvergne, securing informants privy to Napoleon’s activities in France, infiltrating Saint-Malo to sabotage pirate ships, and helping to undermine France’s monetary system. Theirs had been a covert mission at an opportune time when Nelson had been charged with protecting the Channel.
Damn it! Chauncey’s loss cost him plenty; in fact, it left him blind.
Flexibility saved lives, and difficult times called for extreme measures. “Your returning to Kent is out of the question, Gillian.”
“Where, pray, am I expected to go, then?”
Now they were getting somewhere. The well-bred lady who sat before him was a baroness, a powerful enigma who was secure in her shell. Her skills could provide Nelson’s Tea with the feminine persuasion they lacked . . .
He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease his nerves. Did he really want to recruit Gillian? Loss was an insistent beast with claws that refused to disengage; loss was at the heart of every step he took in this life of wits and brawn. But if Simon achieved his goals, the world would be a safer place to live.
Yes. Gillian would be an asset to the vice-admiral’s crew. Simon should know—he was a skilled politician. He’d survived hand-to-hand combat with the Malouin Robert Surcouf, and Frenchmen and Spaniards alike. He’d argued with King George III and the Prince of Wales, and lived to tell the tale. He’d even bantered with Admirals Duncan, Nelson, and Cochrane as if he were their equal.
Loyalty, honor, and duty—these were personality traits he looked for in operatives. A man in his position couldn’t ask for sacrifices if he wasn’t willing to make them. And oh, his sacrifices had been great, indeed. They would be even greater if he persuaded Gil
lian to join their ranks and had to interact with her regularly.
As the carriage jostled along the road, passing the Royal Mews and then St. James Square, Simon tapped his cane impatiently on the floorboard, anxious to discuss his idea with Gillian.
She sat before him like frothy ale to a sailor who’d not seen a tavern in months. She was an inaccessible rose, her beauty his bane and her thorns piercing his heart in an ever-tightening vise. Was she aware of her power over him? That, at one time, he’d loved her more than life itself? That he’d always love her?
It was that very same love that motivated him to see her safely settled. But few were the ways he could reveal the true state of his emotions. He’d married another, and because of it, he didn’t deserve her forgiveness.
“Gillian,” he said, now stewing in agony.
“My lord,” she said sharply, as if attempting to distance herself from him. “We have come far, you and I. But we both know familiarizing ourselves with each other is not wise.”
He sighed. “Very well, Baroness.” He inclined his head. “I shall make your situation clear. You’ve made enemies. You need a safe haven—protection.” Light from a streetlamp illuminated her gaze momentarily. Deep brown eyes searched his soul. “Protection I’m more than willing to give.”
She lifted her chin. “You and I both know what you did the last time you were faced with this choice.”
“Perhaps another advantageous marriage would—”
“Out of the question,” she snapped.
Simon lifted his cane and tapped on the ceiling. The driver responded to the prompt, and the carriage rolled to a stop.
“Why?” he asked, determined to make her see reason. “Fouché’s men are ruthless.”
“I have seen their wickedness firsthand,” she said. “I do not need to be reminded.”
“Then why are you so willing to tempt death when you have everything to live for? The baron was a good man—a great man, in fact—but you are a young, beautiful, intelligent woman with plenty of options.”
“Do not try to sway me—”
“I could never do that. Not after . . .” He cleared his throat. “I speak from the heart when I say your safety takes precedence over whatever has happened between us.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Pride niggled at the back of his brain, threatening to get the best of him. He removed his top hat and raked his hands through his hair. “We need a woman of your—” he fought for the right words, inclining his head toward her widow’s garb “—talents.”
Her frown made him want to melt into the woodwork. “We?” she asked.
Was that the only word she’d heard? Deuce it all, she’d grown more stubborn, more astute over the years. His heart swelled, filling the space behind his ribs. Chauncey had taken a young, indulgent girl and filled her with determination, heart, and spunk, making her hard as steel. Gillian’s independence was a fascinating thing to behold. And it scared him.
Simon swallowed the heavy lump wedged in his throat. “You would be a magnificent addition to the admiral’s crew.”
“His crew?” Gillian’s brow lifted. “You cannot be serious.”
“I assure you, I am.” He waved aside her incredulity, confident he could persuade her to accept a place in his world, even though it frightened him to think of her in danger. “If the baron trained you, you know what it is that we do. And if you know what we do, that makes you either an asset or a detriment to us.” He paused. “The way I see it, joining us will allow you to further your independence and challenge yourself more than becoming an isolated country mouse, someone’s governess, or a merchant struggling to make ends meet would.” She leaned back and closed her eyes, almost as if in defeat. He watched her closely, unable to ignore his racing pulse. “Of course, if Chauncey’s death has robbed you of spirit, I will be happy to—”
“There is nothing you can do.” She opened her eyes and stared at him. “Why are you so insistent?”
“We could be partners, Gillian.”
“I had a brilliant partner.”
“In every sense?” Bollocks! Why had he asked such a thing? After earning her love and then tearing her heart apart by announcing he was betrothed to another, he’d lost that right.
She shrugged dismissively. “Every sense but one.”
He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “Only one?”
“Mais oui,” she said, reverting to French as if born to it.
What other skills did she have?
She sighed. “You cannot expect me to speak it.”
Simon shook his head. He yearned to uncover all Gillian’s secrets, one by everlasting one. But now wasn’t the time to reclaim his foolish youth. The baron lay dead—but not forgotten—in a forest in Kent.
Simon tapped the ceiling with his cane and sank back into the squabs as the carriage vaulted forward, regaining its normal tempo. The vehicle’s suspension rattled. Gillian closed her eyes once more. He studied her face, comparing it to the one he’d compartmentalized in his memories, opening the doors to a part of his past he’d kept under lock and key. Her rosewood scent infiltrated his senses. Her dainty hands were set in her lap, just above the juncture of her thighs. He stared at her gloved fingers, watching for movement, nearly driving himself mad.
“You said you and the baron were partners in every way but one,” he pressed again. She opened her eyes, those very same eyes he remembered melting like honey whenever he’d pressed his mouth to hers. “Did you love him?”
“What would make you ask such a question, Simon?” He’d shocked her, perhaps even repulsed her. “Of course I loved Lucien!” she cried, as if the hounds of Hades were going to maul her to death for vowing anything less.
Simon knew he’d gone too far. And yet, a wicked sense of arrogance burned inside him. He couldn’t stop wondering how happy Gillian had been with the baron while Simon had watched his wife’s health wane. “Were you . . . intimate?”
Gillian gaped at him. “I will not dignify that question with an answer.” She turned her face away, focusing her attention out the carriage window. Her refusal settled over him like ash.
“Gillian.” He moved beside her, the carriage shifting beneath his weight. He took her hand in his and squeezed it lightly, waiting an eternity for her to look back at him. His patience was rewarded when ever so slowly, she glanced up through her lashes. He’d dreamed of this moment, of perusing her features at his leisure. A twinge of guilt stabbed him. If he allowed it, Gillian would surely be the end of him. And yet he couldn’t detach himself, no matter how hard he tried. “I wish things could have been different for us.”
She inhaled, the sound hypnotic, seductive, and practically driving him over the edge. “But they weren’t.”
“No. They weren’t.” He moved closer and lifted her featherlight veil. His senses on high alert, his entire body attuned to hers, feeling more alive than he had in years, he traced her wet tears with his fingers. “Nothing I do can take away your pain. Chauncey was a good man.”
“He was. Oh, Simon.” Tears welled in Gillian’s eyes. She shivered, then sank into his arms.
He held her close, breathing in her scent, luxuriating in the feel of her silky hair against his chin. He stroked her hair, a dull ache throbbing in his chest. Life was cruel, and fate was an unkind master. He wanted her, needed her, as he was struck with the reality of how different things would have been if Gillian hadn’t escaped the gendarmes.
“I will never forget him,” she said, her voice breaking.
“I pray you never do.”
Her sobs came out in a choking rush as she clung to him, her nails digging into his arms. She cried out her husband’s name, and then pummeled Simon with her fists. He took her anger, accepted each blow, and continued to hold her tight, comforting her and sharing her sorrow, until she quieted and relaxed against him.
When he spoke again, the truth shot through him like a musket ball. “Chauncey,” he started, “once said he’d fled France to help
his people. He never once refused to go back to France when the Admiralty needed eyes inside enemy lines. He did everything that was requested of him and more. So much more.”
What man would agree to marry a woman another man loved? The baron had done so. He’d kept his word. He’d safeguarded Gillian, given her stability, and nurtured her spirit. Simon would have most assuredly broken her if she’d stayed and become his mistress. He was who he was—no excuses, no more lies.
“Everything?” she repeated, her brows knitting together as she lifted her face to meet his.
“Yes,” he said, stabbed with guilt as her grief-stricken eyes impaled him. She felt so right in his arms, as if she were part of him, an extension of his soul. Her half-parted lips begged for him to chase away her sorrow. Part of him was eager to assist her, to help her forget the horrors she’d experienced and taste her. “And we shared something else—wanting something we could not have.”
She blinked. “Lucien wanted to destroy Napoleon.”
“As do I.” He nodded. “But that is not all I’ve wanted and you know it.”
“That is life,” she said. “There will always be something out of reach.” She placed a finger over his lips. “You are an honorable man, Simon. You did what you thought was right for me, for both of us. And you are still married. I understand.” She paused. “I’ve always understood.” She caressed his cheek. “There will never be a day I won’t fondly remember what we shared.”
The iron restraints that had gripped him from the moment he’d watched Gillian marry the baron burst open. Sensations he’d forgotten poured over him as his heart began to burn, igniting him with unruly fire. He didn’t deserve Gillian’s compassion, or even to be loved. He was a man of action, a man who did what needed to be done, no matter the consequences to himself or anyone else. He longed to believe he was the man she claimed him to be. Succumbing, he pulled her into his arms and hugged her close.
Enveloped in darkness, they traveled in silence, him holding her, stroking her arm. Fate warred against them. War. Danger. Time. He’d abandoned Gillian to marry the woman his family had chosen for him, Lady Edwina Landon-Fitzhugh, a woman who fought each day to survive to the next. She’d never complained about his frequent voyages on HMS Agamemnon or the countless hours he spent helping Henry Dundas circumvent diplomatic tides. Edwina’s constancy was no match for her ill-health, however, and the children who’d died stillborn.
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