He could not abandon the woman who’d struggled in vain to make him happy at the expense of her own happiness. Torn between two women, Simon resignedly closed his eyes.
The carriage stopped.
Gillian settled back on the squabs and wiped her tear-stained cheeks. She straightened her coiffure and put her hat back on her head. “Where are we?” she asked.
“Number Eleven Bolton Street. My new townhouse.”
“You cannot be serious.” Gillian became restless. “Surely you do not intend for me to stay here. It would be unseemly.”
His mind reeled, and he stared back at her, baffled, as the air turned frigid. Only moments ago she’d leaned on him to ease her grief. “You have nowhere else to go,” he said.
She turned away from him, but he would not be shut out. Of course, there were other places she could go. He knew that well enough. None, however, could provide the protection she needed. Until his men reported back to him—and he was confident Fouché’s men were not a danger to her—it was his responsibility to protect Gillian.
He reached for her, grabbed her chin, and gently prodded her to look at him. Not another moment would go by without him speaking his mind. He had this one chance to persuade Gillian to work with them. Nelson’s Tea needed a woman like her, someone who could go where others could not. “There are bigger things at work here than you know.”
“I’m quite aware of what is happening in the world, my lord.”
“All right, then. I need you,” he finally admitted.
Her laughter sounded half crazed. “You do not need me. You are a distinguished member of the Admiralty. You are a duke’s brother—and need I remind you that you’re married.”
“No.” He stiffened as though he’d been struck. “I do not need to be reminded.”
“Then I can see no reason for me to stay here. It would not be socially acceptable.”
“Not if this townhouse is yours,” he said. He tilted her head toward the entrance. “Think of it. You will be able to continue Chauncey’s work, make a difference, and be a part of something bigger than yourself. Admiral Nelson did not just come to London to attend the theater or speak in Parliament. He came to form a covert group of mercenaries charged with protecting England’s shores. And Number Eleven Bolton Street is where it will begin.”
“Nelson’s Tea?” she asked, surprising him. At his nod, she continued, “Lucien told me. When will this take place?”
“Soon,” he said, astonished by the resonant hint of pride in his own voice. He studied her momentarily. “Join us. I want you to be a part of what we’re about to accomplish, Gillian. Take your husband’s place. Your talents will be put to optimum use.” He made no effort to conceal his allusion to her feminine attributes. They needed someone who could infiltrate Society and wheedle secrets from the ton without anyone being the wiser. And who better to play the game than an independent woman with a title, such as an available widow like Gillian? Her acting experience could also be beneficial.
“What you ask—” she paused “—carries great weight. And after what I’ve just done to Admiral Nelson . . .” She held her hand up to her neck. “Why, I doubt he would sanction my participation.”
Simon threw his head back and laughed his first genuine laugh in ages. “Believe me when I say you are exactly what the admiral needs: someone who isn’t influenced by his larger-than-life persona.”
She chewed her bottom lip, making it grow plump, red, and far more tempting than was proper. Simon cleared his throat and diverted his eyes.
“There are matters that must be discussed,” she said softly.
“But you agree to stay here, at least for tonight, where it’s safe?”
“Do I have your word you will stay elsewhere?”
Was that her only concession?
“Do not worry. Everything will be aboveboard. You have my word.” She’d agreed to one night, which was more than he’d hoped for. “I will return home as soon as you are settled.”
“I will stay,” she said, a bitter edge of determination in her tone, “until I’m confident our past will not be problematic.”
“I’m not asking for anything you cannot and will not give,” he clarified. “I am a married man. I know that well enough, and I still feel as I did five years ago: I would never demean you by making you my mistress.” He cocked his brow, wondering if the subtle confession that he still loved her would change her mind. He wouldn’t blame her, if it did. But he needed her. “With or without you, England’s future depends on the men and women willing to sacrifice themselves for the greater good.”
She placed her hand on his sleeve, a dim flush racing across her face feverishly fast. “And you will go home to her? Where you belong?”
Devil take it, he didn’t want to leave Gillian. He studied the dark lashes that swept down over her delicate cheekbones, and her full rosy mouth. It was all he could do to speak. “Yes.”
“Then I wish you safe journey,” she said.
A footman left the townhouse entrance and opened the carriage door, fracturing the moment. Goodayle, chief protector of his secrets and his acting butler, stood right behind him.
“Good evening, my lord.” Goodayle bowed as Simon exited the carriage and turned to offer Gillian his hand.
Once she was firmly on the ground, he looked to his butler. “Goodayle, may I present Baroness Chauncey. She will be staying at Number Eleven until further notice.”
Goodayle bowed again. “If there is anything you need, my lady, you only have to ask.”
“Thank you, Goodayle,” Gillian said with a nod.
“Goodayle and I served on the Agamemnon together,” Simon whispered as he escorted her to the townhouse stoop behind Goodayle, hoping to reassure her that she would be safe. “Though he may not look it, he is more than a butler.”
“The Honorable Sidney Wittingham at your service, Baroness,” Goodayle said.
“You are titled, and yet you perform the tasks of servant?” she asked, then glanced at Simon. “That isn’t seemly.”
“To the first, a viscount’s son holds no title. To the second, some causes are worth their disguises, Baroness,” Goodayle explained. “I can think of no better way to serve my king than to ensure Lord Danbury’s success. No one will infiltrate Number Eleven unless I allow it.”
Gillian nodded, then straightened her spine as she peered at Simon. “You have thought of everything, it appears.”
No. He hadn’t been prepared for her. He swallowed and forced a smile. “I leave you in Goodayle’s dependable care,” was all he could say.
“Will you not be joining her, my lord?” Goodayle asked, his brow cocked curiously.
The temptation to do so, to spend more time in Gillian’s company, tugged at him like a riptide. But he could no sooner stay than tame the ocean’s currents. “No,” he said, forcing the word from his mouth as he whirled away and walked back to the carriage.
“Thank you, my lord,” she called after him. “For . . . everything.”
Everything. The word reminded him that the baron had done all that he’d asked of him and more, including provide Gillian the means to protect herself. Now, here she was, though under horrific circumstances. She was a bright, glorious star, beckoning mariners away from hazardous rocks. He looked back over his shoulder at her in silent expectation. “You’re welcome, Baroness.”
A tingling sensation coiled in the pit of his stomach. He’d long valued his ability to remain emotionally detached, but now his senses were shouting in uproar. Surely the adventurous undertaking to thwart an assassination attempt on Vice-Admiral Nelson was the cause. And yet, he was powerless to resist staring at the woman who’d once stolen his heart. She’d appeared like a bolt of lightning, jarring him out of his meditative state. He’d forgotten the intensity of desire, of the need to stake his claim on something that wasn’t his. What he felt for Gillian now had nothing to do with reason and everything to do with a reawakening passion, the very thing his marriage
to Edwina lacked.
He cleared his throat. “Goodayle is my man, Baroness. He’ll see you good and settled. Whatever you need, direct your requests to him.” He motioned to the hackney. “Curzon Street. Two ticks.” The hackneys he used at Drury Lane knew to double the distance to his home when he gave them that order. Sometimes he needed the privacy the interior of the carriage provided to think. He stepped into the carriage and settled back on the squabs as the footman closed to door behind him.
What was he to do now? His damned traitorous heart hammered against his ribs as the carriage set off, taking him farther away from the woman he’d spent too many years without.
Seven
“In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances . . .”
~William Shakespeare, As You Like It
Gillian questioned the rightness of her actions as she followed Goodayle inside Number Eleven. At least, her decision to accept Simon’s sanctuary would give her time to properly consider his offer to join Nelson’s Tea, given Lucien’s death, the attempt on Vice-Admiral Nelson’s life, and her near escape from Fouché’s men. Danger was what she had known for the past five years, but was it how she wanted to live the rest of her life? She had a chance to start over, to leave behind her past loves and memories of what could have been. Was that what she really wanted?
“This way, if you please,” Goodayle said, his tone patient as she came to a stop in the middle of the foyer and took off her hat. “Watch your step.”
“Thank you, Goodayle.” Immediately, she took in the layout of the townhouse. Its magnificent wrought iron staircase ascended to the upper floors and a balcony, and a chandelier hung high overhead, its crystal prisms reflecting light that gave a subdued golden hue to everything in view. To her left, a set of double doors suggested a parlor, library, or study would be found there, and a hallway led past the staircase and farther into the townhouse. The latter would require investigation.
“This way, Baroness,” Goodayle said. “You may have guessed by now, given your association with Lord Danbury, that this is not a regular townhouse.”
She tilted her head. “How so?”
Goodayle cut his gaze to her as if assessing whether or not she could be trusted. “Architectural adjustments needed to be made to the interior. I believe, in time, you will find them satisfactory.”
“What kind of adjustments?” she asked. If she was going to be part of Simon’s clandestine group of mercenaries, there were things she needed to know. “And how long has Lord Danbury been renovating?”
Goodayle shrugged. “He began refurbishments shortly after Georges Cadoudal failed to kill Napoleon with a cart bomb last Christmas Eve.”
“Hmm.” She imagined the place to plot clandestine action was better suited to Whitehall, the military headquarters in Westminster. “Has he been recruiting men for Nelson’s Tea for quite some time?”
His deep chuckle helped put her at ease. “The idea was birthed on the Agamemnon.”
“I see.” But she didn’t. Simon began working with Henry Dundas and the House of Lords after he’d left HMS Agamemnon in 1795. Had it taken him over five years to choose the right men, or had he been forced to wait until circumstances between France and England had worsened? She smoothed the lace veil on her hat to hide her nervousness. Simon had never talked about his naval career with her. “So you and Lord Danbury served aboard the Agamemnon together?”
“Aye.” He grew serious as he moved across the black-and-white marble-tiled floor toward the stairs.
She observed Goodayle keenly. If Lucien had taught her anything, it was to recognize character traits that coincided with good or evil. Sometimes the lines intersected; other times they were ripped asunder. She suspected Goodayle fell into another category altogether. His dedication, devotion, and determination hinted not at servitude but at the air of a gentleman shirking all but duty, honor, and country.
“Those were dark times, my lady,” he said as he came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. “Toulon, Calvi, Genoa, and the Hyères Islands. We’ve been through hell together.”
She stared at the candlestick Goodayle held in his hand, hypnotized by its flickering flame. “The admiral lost sight in his right eye at Calvi, didn’t he? Were you and Lord Danbury there?”
He nodded. “French shot kicked sand into the admiral’s face. Still, he insisted on leading the assault, refusing to seek help. He was permanently blinded as a result. We’ve never forgotten his selfless act.” He motioned to the stairs. “Follow me, please.”
She fell into step behind him. “The Agamemnon played a part in the mutiny at the Nore, is that correct?”
“We weren’t aboard her at the time.” He stopped to stare at her. “The admiral was reassigned to HMS Captain. As we were all to be dispersed to other ships, he requested that Lord Danbury and I follow him there.” He moved slowly up the steps, allowing her time to pick up her skirts. “The Captain was sent to Portugal, earning the admiral acclaim at Cape St. Vincent. A good ship, she was, too. Gave her all to defeat the Spanish. From her decks, we had the distinct honor of watching Admiral Nelson board the Spanish ship, the San Nicolas, winning its surrender.” He paused, frowning. “I’ve never seen a man so driven. It isn’t an easy task to follow a man like Admiral Nelson.”
“I am not acquainted with the admiral. He appears amiable enough to me,” she said.
“Oh, you misunderstand, my lady. I refer to the loss of his sight, of watching him suffer recurring bouts of malaria, and a musket ball wound that shattered his right arm. He ordered the surgeon to amputate his arm so he could rejoin the fight. If it weren’t for John Sykes, who saved Nelson’s life twice by being in the wrong place at the right time . . .”
“Of course,” she said as they mounted the stairs. “‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ Noble sacrifices predating war between France and England. Gripping and necessary, indeed.”
Goodayle stopped and looked down at her. “You have sacrificed, as well, my lady.” Tears welled in her eyes, and he cleared his throat before continuing up the staircase. “We have all given up something we cherished. Admiral Nelson is just one of the good men who’ve given their lives and pieces of themselves to defeat Napoleon.”
Silence descended upon them as they climbed the staircase past gilded-framed landscapes of men hunting with large hounds to a landing where the wrought iron artistry curved along the balcony. Before her, lining the walls along the next set of stairs, were the unseeing eyes of officers in the Horse Guards, lords of Parliament and their consorts, and members of King George III’s court.
At the top of the next landing, the corridor was dark, save for the light coming from Goodayle’s candle. Gillian counted her footsteps, memorizing every door and corner for later use, an old habit that enabled her to escape whenever necessary.
Shadows danced along the walls as Goodayle stopped beside a door. “This will be your room, Baroness.”
“If we are to be acquainted, please call me Gillian,” she said, her bombazine skirts swishing in the eerie quiet as he led the way.
“You are most generous, but I cannot.” He shook his head. “If we are to work together, it wouldn’t be proper. Appearances are everything, my lady.” His square jaw grew more pronounced, hinting at the man’s impressive stubbornness. “No matter what you may think, I took an oath to protect Lord Danbury. I gave up my name, and I must behave like a servant at all times if I am to fool anyone of my true heritage. One slipup could mean the difference between life and death—for you, for me, and for Lord Danbury and his family.”
“I understand.” She did. More than he likely realized. “How are Lord Danbury’s brother, niece, and—” she paused “—his wife?”
“His Grace and Lady Constance are well.” He stiffened. “Lady Danbury, however, is gravely ill.”
Her eyes widened. “Ill
? What has happened? Lord Danbury made no mention of it to me.” But of course, why would he? Five years ago, he had married another woman, knowing it had broken her heart.
“He’s a very private man, my lady.” Goodayle backed away, refusing to say more, and motioned to the door. “Is there anything you need before I close up the house for the night?”
“That will not be necessary,” she said, stewing on the news that Simon’s wife was ill. A sense of dread filled her. She didn’t want Simon to lose his wife, especially not after she’d lost Lucien and understood firsthand what it felt like. She grabbed the door handle with trembling fingers. What was wrong with Lady Danbury? Was there anything she could do to help? She had a good grasp of medicinal herbs. Perhaps if she could examine the woman . . .
What are you thinking? Get control of yourself. Simon’s personal life isn’t any of your concern.
But it was. She wished him happiness, and he’d asked her to join Nelson’s Tea. How could she agree to do so if she had no grasp of what Simon was going through?
There was also another thing to consider. Lucien had not survived his mission, and as yet, she had no explanation why. He’d never failed to avoid capture before. He’d been careful, taken precautions, which meant something or someone had foiled Lucien’s plans. But who, other than Fouché or Barère, would do such a thing? How could she trust that someone within Simon’s circle wasn’t the culprit?
She had much to ponder before she agreed to help Simon continue his ruse de guerre. Perhaps that information could be gleaned by visiting Simon’s house.
“It’s been a very long day,” she said, her nerves on edge. She doubted it would be easy to fool Goodayle. He seemed dogged in his determination to serve Simon. But if she wanted to leave Number Eleven and venture to Curzon Street without him knowing, she’d have to distract him.
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