Somehow Gillian doubted that any woman would appreciate being made a spectacle of while her husband cavorted with his paramour. She suspected it was the acclaim that the vice-admiral coveted, not the respect Simon had so willingly given Lady Danbury. “And Lady Hamilton?”
He smiled. “She is my saint.”
Saint?
Gillian stiffened. Why did the use of that particular word cause her unease?
Of course! The man in the alley had used it! Could the word saint have something to do with the other man in the alley, a code name perhaps? He had asked for help. She’d have to investigate further.
“I am sure she is,” Gillian agreed, smiling to cover the fact that her thoughts had wandered.
Nelson didn’t look convinced. She prayed no one else had picked up on her reaction. It wouldn’t do to fail muster before she’d even begun to earn her place among them.
“I do regret the hysterics, Admiral,” she continued, “but I was—”
“In a thrall?” Nelson quirked his brow. He bowed. “Think on it no more. I daresay my dear wife, loyal soul that she is, would have done the same for me. Lady Nelson may be disagreeable and pious, but she is determined.” His lips thinned, and he leaned forward conspiratorially, as if he hated what he was about to say. “She can do no wrong in the public’s eyes.”
Nelson was right. His wife comported herself with dignity, just as Simon’s wife had. She was highly respected by the ton, though she wanted no part of the society Nelson craved. But what would Lady Fanny Nisbet Nelson think of Gillian sullying the woman’s good name by causing a scene, even for such a worthy cause as saving her husband’s life? Only time would tell.
Gillian had done many things to aid Lucien. Some she prayed she could forget, like being forced to kill. Others she hoped no one would ever discover. She’d played multiple roles, disguising herself as actresses, servants, tavern wenches, and widows long before pretending to be Vice-Admiral Nelson’s wife. Though it had only been several days since she’d found Lucien in the woods, that woman, the one who’d held her dying husband in her arms, the one who’d fled her home and the gendarmes, didn’t seem to exist. Could she continue being a covert agent for the Crown?
Yes. A thousand times, yes.
Truth be told, she craved the adventure, the danger. Perhaps that was what had drawn her to the stage in the first place. No two performances were ever alike. Something always seemed to change for better or worse, one never knew which. And like the stage actors who’d come before her, she thrived on it. She wouldn’t abandon Simon. When she made a vow, she kept it. She’d stay, just as she’d promised Lady Danbury, even if it meant loving Simon from afar.
Love? Had the vines guarding her heart begun to bloom again?
The shock of her emotions hit her full force. Simon stood close by. His scent awakened her, mustering dormant desires she’d thought buried and gone forever. His consideration for her well-being, his gentle regard, and the promise of protection he’d made her broke down her defenses. She craved to be held by him, to be safe, warm, and assured that there was a reason to hope they could one day be together.
“Is that the sword that almost ended your life at Calvi in June of ninety-four, Danbury?” Dundas startled her out of her musings and pointed to the naval sword hanging in a case over the mantel. She glanced at Simon.
“Yes,” Simon answered, a tic working in his jaw. He was anxious, she noticed, entirely too nervous for his own good. “Nearly lost my leg over it.”
Gillian swallowed thickly, pushing the horrific image from her mind, and joined him at the sideboard. She beat him to the crystal decanter and took off the lid, the glass clinking. “More brandy, my lord?”
“What are you doing?” he asked, sneaking a look over his shoulder at the men in the room.
“Pouring you a drink.” The brandy sloshed into his glass. “I . . . wanted to be the first to tell you that I accept the position you have offered me.”
“You will join Nelson’s Tea?” He swirled his brandy, taking his time and making a show of inhaling the liquor. “Our association will be unorthodox, to say the least.”
“Perhaps.” She set the decanter back on the bar. “Though, when has our relationship been anything but?”
His expression grew serious. “May I announce your decision?”
“Yes.” Her heart leaped. “You may.”
He nodded, lowering the tumbler to the bar. His fingers brushed her hand, sending prickling sparks of excitement through her.
“What do you think, Danbury?” Nelson asked, snapping her out of the moment. “Seaton believes Napoleon’s blockades have been put in place to defy British trade and isolate us, as well as conceal the fact that he is smuggling gold out of England to fund his war.” Nelson put his hands behind his back. “Seaton’s contacts in Spain could actively investigate leads in San Sebastian to prove that suspicion. The city is only twelve miles from the French border, as you are well aware.”
“I am, and I agree. Seaton would be the perfect agent for such an investigation.” Simon’s fingers brushed Gillian’s again as he left her side. “Intuition has been your helpmate, Admiral. You have said many a time that ‘following your own head, trusting your judgment is better than following the opinions of others.’”
“Though many in the Admiralty have questioned the admiral’s procedures, I have never discounted his judgment,” Dundas said, launching to his feet. “It is and always has been sound. That is why I am here. But how, in good conscience, will we fund such a venture? I cannot solicit money from naval reserves without fear of being taken to task.”
“No one is asking you to endanger yourself, Dundas. Finance,” Simon replied without inflection, “has already been arranged.”
“By whom?” Gillian asked, feeling as if her head was on a swivel.
Nelson smiled. “Many of you have heard of Admiral Cochrane, the Master of Deception. Or as the Frenchies call him, le Loup des Mers.”
“The Sea Wolf,” Gillian exclaimed, earning Nelson’s emphatic stare.
“Aye,” Nelson said. “My good friend has outwitted the enemy time and again with his deceptions. We shall mimic Cochrane’s strategy by sending out false information. The king has—”
“King George?” Dundas gasped. “Pardon me for saying so, but many in Parliament think His Majesty is not stable.”
“My lord—” Gillian stepped toward the center of the room “—we must all take care in how we discuss matters of political import, especially when it concerns the king.”
“I meant no disrespect.” Dundas folded his hands together and inhaled deeply. “My chief concern is that the king does not suffer unnecessary prejudice if funding for Nelson’s Tea becomes widely known. His authority must never come into question, especially now that the current prime minister, Henry Addington, is focused on foreign policy.”
Nelson was in his element, and his appeal was not lost on Gillian. “The king does not fully support Addington.” He began to move about the room, measuring up each man, his presence a stabilizing force that was hard to resist. “Addington is doubling the efficiency of tax reform. Napoleon and the pope have reached an accord, reconciling revolutionaries within the Catholic Church. France is building a fleet, which can only mean, after losing most of its capable officers to the guillotine or desertion, he plans to destroy the Royal Navy.” He paused, allowing them all to absorb the information. “You can be sure that the French Consulate is doing everything within its power to cut England off from its allies, and they have every intention of conquering us. And as long as I have breath in my body, I will not sit back and watch it happen.”
“I am responsible for His Majesty’s ships and the resolute men who follow me to their graves,” the vice-admiral said. “I am held accountable for the broken families war leaves behind. No, my good fellows, we must take the bull by the horns. We must prove, by actively protecting our shores, that our behavior is not dictated by fear, that we have no apprehension of the f
ate that lies ahead. It is our sovereign duty to gather facts, to keep secret our private signals, and to discover when the enemy will strike. You—” he pointed to each man and then leveled his finger at Gillian “—have been chosen. I do not seek another laurel for my post; I seek to achieve victory for my God and king.”
Stanton stood, waved his quizzing glass, and shouted, “Hear! Hear!”
Gillian’s heart pounded furiously as the rest of the men replied, “To death and glory!”
“I would have a toast,” Nelson said loudly to end the reverie. “Where is Wittingham . . . I mean Goodayle.” He glanced at Gillian. “You must keep me on task, Baroness.”
She nodded, her heart full. She was participating in something bigger than she’d ever imagined. Surrounded by tomes of wisdom, the room vibrated with energy barely leashed, and she knew she’d never forget this night.
Goodayle entered the room with another tray of drinks.
Nelson intercepted the man. “After everyone has a glass, put the tray down, Goodayle. I would have you join us.”
Goodayle did as he was told, and within a matter of minutes, everyone was waiting expectantly for the vice-admiral to speak.
“Do you agree to uphold the monarchy and protect England, be it as a peer, officer, smuggler, publisher, shipmaster, miller, paymaster, artist, vicar, or seductress?” he asked, winking at Gillian.
She took no offense. “Aye,” she said, adding her voice to the rest.
Nelson paused, then raised his glass. “To England.”
“To England,” they replied.
The vice-admiral studied them above the rim of his glass as they all took a drink. “The enemy will not have reason to boast of their security. For I trust, ere long, to assist them in person in a way that will completely annihilate the whole of them.”
Gillian glanced around the room. The spies Simon had handpicked, the challenges they would face in the future, gave her pause. Would any of them survive the daunting task that lay ahead? There were no guarantees. Lucien was proof of that.
“England expects that every man, and woman,” Nelson said, giving Gillian a nod, “will do his or her duty.”
She’d given everything for her country. Was she prepared to lose Simon, too?
“Hear! Hear!” they shouted. “To death and glory!”
Gillian turned to Simon, her burden growing heavier. From stagehand, to actress, to baroness and spy, she never could have imagined the direction her life had taken or the dramatic turn her life would now take.
Eleven
“Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything . . .”
~William Shakespeare, As You Like It
Fog obscured many of the tombstones in St. Luke’s Cemetery as the mist crept over the wintry landscape from the river. The somber gloom pressed in on Simon as the pall was removed from Edwina’s pine coffin, revealing the brass plate inscribed with her name and dates of birth and death, and he prepared to say a final goodbye before she was lowered into the consecrated ground. He wasn’t accustomed to living in the present but rather by anticipating whatever tomorrow would bring in order to save lives. He had no other choice in this moment, however. The burden of not being able to give Edwina the life she’d deserved weighed heavy on his chest, achoring him to the cold, unforgiving ground. At least now, he could gift her with a royal end to years of torment and pain.
Mr. Crofton, the officiating vicar, finished reading from the Good Book. “Amen.” He made the sign of the cross and nodded to Simon before moving aside.
Simon stood motionless, a white mist materializing before his mouth with each breath. A sennight had passed since Edwina’s death, and November had brought a bracing chill carrying a promise of snow. In the interim, her body had been dressed and laid out in the town house beneath a woolen shroud surrounded by flowers. The scent of the flowers, he’d been told, would help relieve his niece Constance’s and Lady Landon-Fitzhugh’s sensibilities as they sat vigil over her body. Edwina’s mother’s stamina was low. Her sadness, and the risk the cold posed to her health, denied her the closure attending her daughter’s funeral would bring.
He grimaced. It was deuced hard to be stoic in public, but enduring pain had been drilled into him from childhood. He’d been called on, at various times in his life—as he was today—to use that strength when the occasion warranted it. The current social methodology fancied that women couldn’t control themselves at graveside services. Tradition often prevented the opposite sex from attending particular events, and it filled him with disgust. Women could do just about anything they put their minds to. Hadn’t Gillian proved that to be the case?
Simon exhaled, producing another white cloud of frozen air. He stood among friends: Stanton, Goodayle, Archer, and his brother, Rock. Vice-Admiral Nelson had retired to Number Twenty-Three Piccadilly for several days and then planned to head to Merton, the new home he’d purchased to share with the Hamiltons. Simon didn’t fully understand the nature of the Hamiltons’ relationship with the vice-admiral, nor did he care. The navy had taught him to concentrate on his own matters instead of desiring to be privy to what went on in other people’s beds. Lord knew he’d always had problems of his own to master.
Dundas, on the other hand, had returned to Whitehall while the other members of Nelson’s Tea had returned to their places of origin to begin the first of many missions for King George III, Nelson, and Sir Arthur Wellesley.
Sir Landon-Fitzhugh raised a handkerchief to his mouth and coughed loudly, clearing his lungs. He wore a black overcoat, a black beaver hat, and a black armband. Simon and the rest of the men present wore a similar style.
Well-wishers stepped forward and laid lilies on Edwina’s coffin. They offered their condolences, shook Simon’s hand, and then departed. He thanked each of the mourners who’d traveled to Chelsea on this cold, blustery day. Edwina’s life may have been extinguished at thirty years of age, but she left a legacy of compassion and charity never to be forgotten and a brand on his heart.
Frost crunched beneath the retreating feet of the guests who retired to their conveyances. Ropes screeched against Edwina’s coffin as the time to lower her into the holy ground finally came. The air was crisp. Prayers were murmured, each one splintering his icy facade. He’d prayed for Edwina often into the night, but not all prayers were answered the way one wanted them to be.
Rock laid a hand on Simon’s shoulder, startling him out of his trance. “It’s time,” his brother said.
Simon nodded woodenly. He stepped forward and reached down for a handful of soil. He weighed the sediment in his hand, feeling the urge to take off his gloves and grasp the earth with his bare fingers. But he didn’t. To do so ignited his emotions. He couldn’t bear to imagine what life would have been like for them both had Edwina not been frail. Instead, he summoned strength from an unknown well, tossed the soil over his wife’s coffin, and watched the brass plate disappear.
A breeze caressed his hair where it grazed the top of his cravat, reminding him of Edwina’s touch. He closed his eyes and saw Edwina’s face.
Live, Simon. Go to her. Her last request filled him with regret but also a sense of purpose. In time, he could let go. Until then, he would plant a lush carpet of flowers over her grave so that her final resting place would bring others the kind of beauty and blessing she’d been in her prime.
Stanton and Goodayle stood with Archer, who’d been devoted to Edwina. Archer motioned to Simon. “My lord?”
Simon brushed off his gloves and turned away from his wife’s grave as the diggers committed to their arduous task. “I am ready.”
They turned and walked away but not toward the vehicles where the black jobbers—the funeral procession masters—waited by three teams of Friesian horses. There was still another burial to attend today.
They moved to the plot where Gillian stood by another black-draped coffin, wind playing with her veil. Simon frowned. Burying men who’d f
ollowed his orders would surely be the part of his job he detested. How could he say goodbye to a man who’d sacrificed his life for his God, king, and country? For without the baron’s help, they truly might not have learned of the plan to assassinate Vice-Admiral Nelson.
Drawn to Gillian, Simon knew that she’d breached tradition by coming to say her final goodbyes to her husband, and his feet moved of their own volition. He studied her as he approached. She was dressed in a black cloak and a black turban with a long veil fringed with bugles, looking as stiff as the limestone markers.
Mr. Crofton fell into step beside him. “Are you not pleased, my lord?”
Simon stopped and repositioned his cane, feeling suddenly ill at ease. He flexed his fingers around the silver dragon’s head handle and looked down at the rotund reverend, wanting to throttle the man. Why, he couldn’t be sure. Was a man supposed to be pleased that he was burying his wife or that a man had died trying to warn them all?
“What do you mean, vicar?” Simon asked, tempering his mounting frustration.
“With the service,” the man quickly explained, as if realizing his blunder. “That is to say . . . what I mean is, the number of people in attendance on a cold, foggy day such as this . . .”
“It is always cold and foggy in England.”
The vicar raised his brows.
“Forgive me,” Simon said. “This has been a strain on my constitution. If it weren’t for the ridiculous custom of not allowing women to attend funerals, I daresay there would not have been any room around Lady Danbury’s grave. She was loved and respected by many.”
Mr. Crofton’s face reddened. “Of course. She will find no better final resting place than St. Luke’s.” The man gulped when Simon simply stared at him. “As I’m aware you already know. Ah,” he said, holding out his hand, “I see that our next funeral is ready to begin. If you will allow me to, I’ll proceed with the reading.”
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