“How you knew exactly what to look for, that you chose the right equation among all the other equations in the safe.”
Slowly, as if she were taking particular care, she scrubbed and rinsed a cup and set it aside to dry. “I told you, I know enough to understand what I’m looking at. I just can’t originate it.” She washed another dish. “Now it’s my turn. How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That I’d made a copy of the cipher? I was very careful to make sure I replaced the original exactly where I’d found it.”
His smile returned, wry this time. “You did, and very likely I would never have known it had been copied if not for one thing.”
Her hands fell still and she met his gaze. “Yes?”
“Violets. The paper smelled like violets. Like you.”
Her lips parted in silent astonishment, then slowly curved upward. “Well, I guess I’m not so clever at this spying game after all. Or maybe part of me wanted to be caught, considering how much I hated doing it.”
An aching sensation burned in his chest. “Did you? If that’s true, then why did you do it?” he demanded harshly. “Was it for the money?”
She gave a hollow laugh and set the last dish aside to drain. Picking up a towel, she dried her hands. “What money? Does it look as if we live in fine style here? Believe me, if there were any money, I wouldn’t be washing dishes out of a bucket.”
His jaw tightened. “Then why did you do it? Or are you a true believer in Napoleon’s cause?”
She flung the towel aside with a disdainful toss. “I don’t care a jot for his cause, whatever it may be. All I can see is that he’s brought war and destruction to France—men, women and children whose lives have been torn apart by hardship and loss and misery. I hate the Emperor as much as you do, even if I still love my country.”
“England is your country as well, at least on your mother’s side.”
“D’accord, but Maman is gone, and Papa’s life is here. My brothers have never known anything else. This is their home. You want to know why I did it? For them. I did it all for them. Now, if you’re done with your interrogation, I have supper to prepare.”
“Anne—” He reached out and took hold of her arm.
She tugged herself away. “Sebastianne. I’ll thank you to call me by my proper name.”
“Very well, Sebastianne.”
“Now, go visit Papa. He, at least, will enjoy your company. As for tonight, you can bed down in the stable since it’s too much of a risk for you to stay in the village. There would be talk, even if you weren’t a foreigner. In the morning, you can leave.”
He stepped nearer, her sweet, clean scent coming to his nostrils. “I have no intention of leaving, not without you.”
“Then you’re doomed to be disappointed since I’m not going anywhere with you. Nor can you compel me. All I need do is tell them in the village that an English spy is in my house, and you’d be hauled off in an instant.”
“You could reveal my presence, it’s true,” he mused aloud. “But you won’t.”
Her chin tilted upward. “How can you be so sure? After all, I betrayed you once, why not again?”
He met her gaze, searching for the truth in her golden brown eyes. After all, she was right. How could he trust a word she said?
“Because if you wanted to turn me in,” he observed, “you’d have done it already.” Reaching up, he curved a hand around the back of her neck, his thumb stroking under her hair.
Her eyelids notched lower. “I just haven’t had time. Once you’re with Papa, I’ll be away to the village to tell them you’re here.”
If he were smart, he would take her statement at face value. He was a fool to believe she would do anything but use and deceive him, and yet he sensed there was more to her actions than he yet knew. She said she’d taken the cipher for her family. But at whose behest? Someone had planted her in his home, he knew that much. Someone influential had gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange her employment. What else had they done to get their way? Suddenly he wanted answers more than revenge.
He carefully tightened his fingers, holding her in place. “You won’t tell a soul about me.”
A shiver ran through her, air soughing breathlessly from her lips. “No, I won’t.”
And he believed her.
“As for my sleeping arrangements,” he said, smiling, “I can think of far more appealing accommodations.”
A flush rose on her face, and she tugged against his grip. “You are not sharing my bed.”
He brushed his thumb against her nape. “Shall I not?”
“No,” she stated firmly. The effect was ruined, however, when another tremor ran through her body. “Go away, Drake.”
His smile widened. “For now. Be warned that our conversation isn’t over. We have a great deal more to discuss.”
“In that, you are right. Now release me. The boys will be back anytime.”
At the reminder, he lowered his hand and stepped away.
He would go see her father, and while he was there, take a few minutes to contemplate everything he’d just learned, including the fact that, fool that he was, he still wanted Sebastianne.
“Vous êtes brilliant, Lord Drake!” Auguste Calvière declared from where he sat behind the desk in his workshop. “That was precisely the suggestion I’ve been needing.”
Drake inclined his head, glad he had been able to help the older man, whose work was still impressive despite his mental retreat from the world.
“What luck that you could visit now.” Calvière stood and crossed to a cabinet on the far side of the room. Opening a door on the cabinet, he withdrew a bottle and a pair of small glasses. “I have so little opportunity these days to consult with colleagues,” Calvière continued as he bustled back to his desk, bounty in hand. “It’s all but impossible to keep up a reliable correspondence with one’s peers. They read everything, you know, la militaire. Like a pack of ferrets, nosing in everyone’s business. Have you not found that to be true, monsieur, even on your side of the sea?”
Actually, Drake supposed he had, aware that it had been slow and frustrating trying to maintain relationships with fellow mathematicians and scientists in countries other than England. As for the military reading his letters, he doubted they had the time or the nerve, especially considering his connections to the War Office. Then again, if some junior clerk wanted to snoop into his professional correspondence, Drake could only pity him since he doubted that the man would have enough knowledge to understand more than every third word.
Calvière pulled the cork from the bottle and poured two glasses of what gave every indication of being brandy. He slid one glass across the desk to Drake. “Glad my girl’s back safe and sound,” he said. “I worried about her while she was away, alone in Paris with only her sick cousin.” His thin grey eyebrows drew together on his forehead like a pair of diagonal lines. “Funny that I don’t recall having a cousin Paulette, but Sebastianne swears we do, so it must be true.”
He smiled, displaying teeth that were straight but faintly yellowed with age. “My pride and joy, Sebastianne. Never was there a better girl. Smart, you know, with a head for numbers. Sad she wasn’t born male. Oh, the wonders she might have wrought. Alas, neither Julien nor Luc has the gift. No talent for mathematics beyond the ordinary, though not many do, I suppose.”
Calvière shook his head with regretful introspection while Drake found himself thinking that despite Sebastianne’s intelligence and abilities, he was very glad she had not been born a boy. He liked her exactly the way she was.
“Drink, drink,” the older man encouraged, pointing to the glass sitting untouched before Drake. “I’ve been keeping this for a special occasion.”
Drake hadn’t realized this was a special occasion. Then again, perhaps Calvière was right, since it wasn’t every da
y he secretly crossed into enemy territory and spent time with a man who had once been an idol of his. Lifting the brandy glass, he took a swallow, finding it to be an excellent vintage.
“So you met my girl in Paris, correct?”
Drake paused, considering the truth of where and how he and Sebastianne had met. “In the city, yes.”
“I’m glad she had a man such as you around, not like that other one.” Calvière’s lips curled into a sneer. “He’s a bad sort. Came sniffing around here just before she left to take care of her cousin.”
Drake’s fingers tightened against the glass in his hand. “What man is this?” he asked, careful to keep his voice calm.
“Same one that was here a few days ago.” Calvière frowned. “Sebastianne was in the garden gathering vegetables, and the boys were off playing. Everything was quiet, then I heard voices, hers and his, arguing. I only caught bits and pieces of what they said, but enough.”
“What were they saying?”
“He wanted something, something she was supposed to have given him. She told him she’d hidden it, and that she wouldn’t hand it over unless he gave her something else in return.”
“What kind of something?”
“Don’t know,” Calvière said, glancing at Drake for a moment before furtively looking away. “I couldn’t hear that part. I just know that he threatened her and said he’d be back. I don’t want him back. I don’t want him anywhere near my family. He’s a vile, evil man. He must go away. He must stay away.” Calvière shook, his entire body suddenly trembling so that he was in danger of tipping over his drink.
Reaching out, Drake slid the glass out of harm’s way.
Calvière continued to shake, opening and closing his fingers against his thighs, muttering to himself under his breath.
Drake understood now why Sebastianne had made up her tale about caring for an invalid cousin rather than telling her father the truth. Whatever her motivations for going to England, her father clearly would not have been able to deal with the truth. Obviously, something had broken in Calvière. Whether from the death of his wife or from too many years living under the darkness of upheaval and war, he could no longer cope with reality. Instead, he dwelled behind a shield of rosy delusions and professional abstractions, which Sebastianne was wise enough to maintain.
As for her brothers, Drake reasoned, they were too young to be confidants, although he suspected Julien understood far more than the boy let on. Did he know that Sebastianne had not spent the spring in Paris? Was he also aware of the man who threatened her with harm? Julien had immediately come to Sebastianne’s defense when he’d found her with Drake, protective and willing to fight. What other responsibilities had he shouldered while she was away, as a boy who was on the verge of becoming a man.
“You are not to fret, monsieur,” Drake said soothingly to the older man. “You have my word that I shall take care of your daughter and your family.”
Calvière glanced up, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and relief. “You would do that? You would see to their safety?”
“Yes, I would do that.” And Drake realized in that moment that regardless of his original reasons for tracking Sebastianne here to her home village, none of that mattered anymore. She was in trouble, and in spite of what she had done, he would come to her aid.
Sebastianne’s father blinked, his eyes slightly pink around the edges. “You are good, my lord, a true and noble gentleman. It is a pity you were not born French.”
At the remark, Drake couldn’t help but laugh.
Seemingly recovered, Calvière picked up his brandy and tossed it back, sighing with pleasure at the excellent libation.
Drake hesitated, not wishing to upset the older man again. Yet he had to know. “One last question, monsieur, before we return to our adventures in prime numbers.”
At the reminder of mathematics, Calvière’s eyes gleamed with excitement. Drake hoped he hadn’t made a mistake by mentioning Calvière’s favorite topic and thus losing the other man’s focus entirely.
“Did you happen to hear his name?”
Calvière stood and crossed the room, leaning down to root through a stack of papers. “Whose name?” he asked distractedly.
“The one who came to the garden. Do you know how he is called?”
Calvière’s fingers slowed, the frown returning to his face. For a long moment, Drake didn’t think he would answer.
“Vacheau,” Calvière whispered with a quiet shudder. “The villain’s name is Vacheau.”
Chapter 29
Sebastianne went about her usual routine for the remainder of the afternoon—if anything could be considered “usual” under the circumstances. She cleaned and tidied the house, gathered herbs in the garden and put the bread in the oven to bake and the chicken on the stove to boil, as she’d originally planned. The boys returned from finishing their chores, then after washing their hands and faces, helped her set the table.
Just when she was about to call them for supper, her father and Drake emerged from his workroom, both men still deep in discussion over number theory. Deciding Drake could be of help, she thrust a bottle of red wine and a corkscrew into his hands and left him to do the rest. With the food steaming fragrantly in bowls and platters on the table, they all sat down to eat.
She said little throughout the meal, content to let Drake tell the boys a few interesting tales that held them riveted. Even Julien relaxed the last of his guard, his eyes fixed with interest.
After the meal, she left them all at the table while she went to wash up. To his credit, Drake did offer to help, but she refused, preferring to work alone while she considered the impact of Drake’s presence in the house, and in France. The fact that he’d so easily charmed her family was both a blessing and a curse since she vowed that, come morning, she would have to kick him out.
And if he refused to leave?
She would think of a way to force him to go. It was dangerous enough having him in the cottage. But if Vacheau should arrive and discover Drake . . . a cold shiver raised gooseflesh on her skin at the thought of what might follow.
Non, she told herself, Drake will stay the night, then go on his way.
And once he was gone?
Her heart gave a sharp pang at the idea. Losing him once had been wrenching. Losing him again . . . she wasn’t sure she’d be able to recover from the pain. But Drake wasn’t here to woo her, he’d come for retribution, and she would do well to remind herself of that fact.
“You can sleep in Papa’s workroom,” she told Drake more than an hour later, as her father and brothers called good night and made their way to their rooms. “I’ve made up the sofa in there, and while it’s not up to your usual lordly standards, it should suffice for one night.”
She expected him to argue and renew his entreaties to sleep in her bed. Instead, he smiled and thanked her for the meal and the accommodations, dropping a kiss on her forehead before turning away.
Puzzled and strangely disappointed, she went to look in on the boys in the loft and say another good night before returning downstairs to her bedchamber at the rear of the house.
The night was too warm to sleep with the windows closed, so she left them open, allowing a faint breeze to bring the fragrant scents of grass and climbing roses into the room. Insects chirped out a soothing chorus beyond the drawn curtains, the occasional croak from a frog adding a punctuation to the harmony.
Easing out of her dress, she hung it in the wardrobe before pulling a thin cotton nightgown over her head. Crossing to the washbasin, she bathed her face, then scrubbed her teeth with a bristle toothbrush and a precious bit of tooth powder that she’d managed to bring back with her from London. Next, she took up her brush and gave her hair a hundred strokes that made the long strands crackle. Laying the brush down, she went to her bed and climbed in, then leaned over and blew out the candle.
She was nearly asleep when she felt a hand slide over her mouth. Panicked, she gave a muffled cry and began to struggle.
“It’s only me,” a deep, familiar voice said against her ear. “I didn’t want you taking fright and waking up the entire house.”
She stared at Drake in the darkness, her heart pounding in violent strokes beneath her breastbone. Glaring at him, she spoke again, but her words came out garbled and indistinguishable against his palm. Annoyed, she gave him a tiny nip with her teeth.
“Hey!” he complained, pulling back his hand. “There’s no cause for that.”
“Oh, isn’t there?” She sat up in bed, the sheet falling away. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to talk. By the way, that sofa of your father’s isn’t very comfortable.”
“Comfortable or not, you should return to it and go to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.” When the sun would be shining and she would have the strength to send him away for good—she hoped.
“No,” he said, soft but emphatic, as if he knew exactly what she planned. “We’ll talk now.”
“I’m tired, Drake,” she said, realizing she was not only tired in body but in spirit as well. “Go away.”
“Not until you’ve answered my questions.” Walking to the window, he pulled back the curtains and let in enough moonlight for both of them to see. Nudging her over, he sat down on the bed. “Tell me about Vacheau.”
She felt her eyes widen, her throat growing tight. “Where did you hear that name?”
“Your father. He notices far more than you might imagine.”
She resisted the urge to groan.
“He heard the two of you arguing a few days ago. He says the man threatened you and that you have something that he wants rather badly. Is it the cipher, Sebastianne? I assumed you would already have handed it over. Is that not the case?”
She lifted her gaze to his, the rich green in his eyes visible even in the low light. Slowly, she shook her head. “I gave him only a portion.”
“What do you mean, a portion?”
The Bed and the Bachelor Page 27