Which, of course, meant she had looked. The flat was carefully devoid of anything that would reveal his identity. He had been given his mother’s name at birth: Moran. But even that name had not always been hers. She had changed it when she’d left her family for life as a courtesan. He kept Moran for the first twenty-three years of his life until Badeau’s death when he wished to honor his memory as a son.
A son.
He had yearned for a father in his early years. He had told Jane that Badeau was more of a father than his own of blood, and the man had left Gerard everything he owned, but there were times he had hated his tutor, times his tutor had betrayed his trust in ways Gerard could never quite forgive, even if he understood.
“Locking the door would not have been sufficient if I had truly wished to leave.” The words chilled him. He knew this to be true but there was significance to her statement. That she had checked the door, and that she had not yet wished to leave. Yet. At some point she would.
“I won’t let you go,” he said, the words meant as a warning, although when the time came, he was not certain how or if he would force her to stay.
He felt the loss of her as keenly as if it had already happened, as if some part of himself had been cut away. And try as he might to harden himself, gird against the impending loss, he could not.
The expression on Gerard’s face was inscrutable, as if he had thrust a mask upon it to keep her from seeing him. A reminder that after all they had shared, all the stories they had told, there were still secrets to be kept. Not that her identity would be a secret long if he made any effort to inquire about who the third occupant had been in Powell’s carriage. Surely in Vienna the Brumbles would have enlightened everyone that she had not in fact been traveling with them as she ought. Vienna. Where her father awaited her. Where by now he knew of her loss. Vienna, where Lady Jane Langley would have been engaged in helping her father with any matters of business he needed to conduct as he supported the congress’s efforts. She had been so excited to be a part of that world, to use her mind.
The reminder of Vienna, of a life so distant from this little world of Gerard and Jane, where other people were enjoying the vibrancy of intellectual pursuits without her, stiffened her spine. She was Jane Langley after all.
“You have to,” Jane said at length, with a simple shrug. “I will not stay.”
“I love you.”
Her heart clenched at the three simple words. In some other place and some other time, she would rejoice to hear them from him, and yet, she would never know him this way had circumstances been different.
“Hah,” she scoffed coldly, “you Frenchmen and your love. A cliché, I think. What you are is a murderer. An assassin. A tool for someone.” Tension radiated from him. The words were no less than the truth, but they were hurtful.
“What makes you think I didn’t plan everything on my own?”
She sat up, drew the blanket back around her, shutting down the softer side of her, latching on to the fight.
“Oh, I’m certain you planned the event. But how did you pick your target? Lord Powell, for as we have determined your target wasn’t me. Why him? Had you ever met him before?”
“You are obfuscating.” He shook his head. “You are mine. This is not simply for now.” He said it with such surety that she thought perhaps he was right.
She made the mistake of looking into his eyes. His dark gaze caught her, dared her to speak the truth. He dipped one finger into the ashes, pressed it to her neck, the dark remnants of fire still warm on her skin.
He drew his finger down the flat plane of her chest to where it came to meet the rise of her breasts. He was marking her. She saw the words take shape, in French, in Italian, in Portuguese. Some words she understood: Mine, Love. She understood why too, when he switched to German, then to Hungarian, down her arms, her bare breasts, the words streaked, smeared away as his hand held her, thumb slid over nipple. She recognized the Russian letters and the Greek, on the soft expanse of her belly.
She let him, because this moment might be the closest she ever came to experiencing love for herself. That this strange man even wanted to claim her in such a way astounded her. That her heart desperately wanted to answer shocked her even more.
He moved lower, brushed across the curls between her thighs. She shivered again, but shifted ever so slightly, gave him room to—his finger stroking her, then inside her. She opened her eyes, found him watching her. He was marking her in every which way possible, making her his. With every moment more, she wanted to let him, she wanted to give herself over to his keeping, stay here in this room, nowhere, under his hands, in this silence, but she couldn’t.
She reached down, lay her fingertips on his wrist. He withdrew, slid his fingers down her leg so that she felt him mark her with her own moisture. There was no Lady Jane here, no Jane even. Just woman and man, with the thin walls of civilization holding them back from the rest of night’s creatures.
“When I leave—”
“Jane, you know I cannot let you.”
“You say you love me. Then let me go and trust that I will not reveal you.”
He leaned over her, cradling her head, brought her mouth to his. The rough fabric of his shirt rubbed against her. She parted her legs to cradle him between them, against her, knew that she was tempting her own control, her own ability to make either of them stop.
Lady Jane Langley. She said her name in her head, repeated it again till the words began to hold some modicum of meaning. Langley. Jane. But his mouth was everything, a world of swirling colors and rich warmth, where she would never be cold, never be hurt, always be in the cradle of his hands.
She broke away, burying her face against his neck. “If you really love me, then would you not want my love in return?” She lifted her head again, challenged him to meet her gaze. “As your prisoner, any love I professed would be…false.”
Distorted.
She admired him and desired him.
“I cannot let go of you.” But this time he was not referring to her ability to identify him. She looked away from the tortured need of his gaze and stared at the now dark pile of ash. She understood that agony and confusion. Her world had upended and apparently his had as well. And though she had said she could not give him her love, her heart ached. Somehow, as different as they were, they had found something akin in each other, experienced some sort of communion of the souls. It was very like love. Perhaps it even was the seeds of such an emotion, but it didn’t matter. She pushed herself from him, reached down, buried her hand in soot. With her other hand, she pulled at his shirt, not caring when she heard the tear of fabric.
“Gentle, love.” His hand stilled hers but she slid her fingers around, took his wrist between her fingers, and brought it to her mouth. Lips pressed to that thin, sensitive skin where she could feel the pulse of his blood, she lifted her other hand.
“Here,” she whispered, palm flat against his chest. Then she lowered his hand from her mouth to her own breast, above where her heart beat. She met his eyes, still blinking away the wetness from her own. “In some way, you are right. I am yours. My heart, that ephemeral space the poets call a soul. Everything. But still, I will leave you.”
Gerard pushed her words out of his mind, pulled her against him and embraced her in his arms. “We’ll go south, live by the water. The days will be slow and warm, the beds soft and we’ll both start anew where no one knows us.”
She said nothing, but shifted so that she curled up against his chest and he felt the heat of her breath on his skin, giving him everything and nothing. He tightened his arm around her. She gasped and he quickly released her, scooped her up and carried her to the bed.
“You should be resting.”
She held her eyes closed. Her eyelashes were damp, a fat drop of water clinging to the dark fringe before it fell, ran across her cheek.
“I’ve slept most of the day,” she said. “And we’re supposed to join Mrs. Koch for dinner.”
He shook his head. “I think perhaps it is best if we don’t.” The idea of having to pretend for even so much as an hour, was too much. “I shall give our regrets.”
He lay down next to her, stroked her arm, her cheek, until she fell asleep.
Even now, this love he felt for Jane was strange to him yet completely sensible. She was not some feeble-minded being; she understood the world and the strings that pulled at it, the tensions created. She viewed life as if she stood on a mountaintop. Perhaps it wasn’t the sea to which he should secret her. Perhaps Switzerland, the Alps, some chateau in that stark beauty. By a lake. The fantasy was building in his mind.
Her body softened fully against him, her breath deep and even. He eased himself off of the bed and made himself presentable.
He would go down and make their excuses, then he would venture out into the town once more.
She had asked him to trust her, but she did not know about torture, and keeping her with him was protecting her as much as himself. He was tempting fate, he knew. If she woke, if she decided to leave, then she would. If not today then someday.
He needed to convince her to stay before that day came, because he had no way to hold her other than the force he was no longer willing to use.
Chapter Eight
When she woke and Gerard was gone, Jane didn’t hesitate. Her movements were economical, protecting the arm that still needed to heal, silent in case he heard noise and came to look. He could very well be in the sitting room or somewhere else, but it didn’t matter. She was alone in a town big enough to find shelter.
Unless he stopped her.
She went through all the motions of her escape, gathering what food she could, the letter opener from the desk as the meanest sort of weapon, and then, in the darkness of the alley behind the building, her chest ached hollowly, her stomach hurt, and her eyes burned. The freedom to leave weighed down each step. He had let down his guard and now she would leave. She would never see him again.
Nausea sickened her as she stumbled through the shadowy cobblestone streets toward the edge of town and the posting inn that would surely be there. The farther she went, the more she understood he would not be stopping her. She had never felt more alone.
Yes, there was the physical aloneness, the awareness that she had traded the safety of his company for the dangers of a woman traveling alone. But there was also the emotional, the void that was so much greater and terrifying now that she understood what she was missing.
Resting against the cold stone of the nearest wall, she shook with silent tears. Until she wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, took a deep breath, and forced him out of her thoughts, focused on logistics. She would not cry over him again. Nor would she let him find her the way his tutor had found him all those years ago, which is what would happen if she showed up at any inn in the middle of the night alone and penniless. But the moon was only a sliver, and without light, the darkness near complete. She did not dare to ask directions, to leave a trail so easily followed, or to speak to the sort of strangers like to be out at this hour of the night. Perhaps the best course of action would be to hide near his apartment. He would not expect her to be so close. But the idea of going backward, of being near him yet apart, was impossible to bear.
Instead, wrapped tightly in the warm coat Gerard had purchased for her, Jane snuck through the town, avoiding lights and people, toward the cathedral whose spires she had noted when they first entered the city. In the shadows of the graveyard, she found a place to hide for the night, but she didn’t sleep. It was possible Gerard would find her and she was wracked by her own duality of emotion. In some way, she wanted him to, wanted to cede her will to his, give in to his warmth, his love, the impossible life he suggested. After all, the road between her hiding place and Vienna was long and surely fraught with danger. There was no guarantee she would make it. Or that, still healing as she was, she had the strength to endure whatever obstacles she might face.
But she would not have made her escape if she did not have a plan, and here in Frankfurt she had the best chance of survival. When the first light of dawn broke the sky, she righted her appearance and ventured into a shop, knowing even as she did so that if Gerard searched for her, with each contact she was leading him to her.
Tired and wary of the stares that accompanied her foray into the Jewish quarter, she finally located the Rothschilds’ banking offices and as she had met one of the Rothschild sons in London, and they recognized her father’s name, she was able to obtain credit. She would have sold her necklace, been fiercely happy to be rid of its reverence of reason, and managed some other way if she had had to, but the bankers were sympathetic to her plight. They had heard of the accident and Lord Powell’s death and seemed inordinately interested. Unease sent gooseflesh down her skin and Jane carefully did not mention Gerard.
The rest of the journey passed relatively peacefully. She hired a coach and a woman to act as her maid, and arrived a week and a half later in Vienna. Most of this she imparted to her father, who listened over a stack of papers, as if the fact that his only child had turned up alive was of little importance. Yet she knew it was. This was simply her father’s way—to focus on matters at hand.
“Did anyone search for me?” she asked abruptly, stopping her own narrative.
For an instant, there was only the sound of paper crushed in his grip and to her ears it signaled a pause, an indication that her father was deliberating his answer. What was there to deliberate about that question?
“I was told that there was. Naturally, by the time the news reached me, I had grave doubts about the success of any further search. Still, I sent Patrick.”
Patrick. One of his grooms. The man could barely speak English, let alone German or French.
“We are sorely understaffed, Jane. And the chances of you being alive…” He was making excuses. Her father never made excuses.
“What did you think happened to me?”
“The carriage was ransacked, goods stolen…”
Not by Gerard. Her heart hitched at the sound of his name in her head, and her eyes stung with unshed tears. She, who had rarely cried before that fateful day nearly a month earlier. So opportunists had come upon the carriage and taken what they could. She could hardly blame them after seeing the wreckage of the countryside even months after the last battle had ended.
“Everyone accounted for except for me.”
She tried to imagine being in her father’s place, eminently practical—assume the most likely thing to have happened. After all, who would imagine that Jane wandered off looking for help? Her father knew that she was as practical as he. She would have stayed near the road, if possible, and waited for the other coach. Of course, her story was far from the truth. And the truth was just as fantastical.
Her heart constricted. Her chest ached. The room felt painfully small. Her eyes stung again, and she quickly looked down to hide from her father the upwelling of emotion. Not that distress would be remiss after an ordeal such as she had gone through—even the watered down version she had presented to him.
“I was…distraught.” Her father’s voice caught on the word and she glanced at him quickly, catching the tortured expression on his face, the first indication that he had truly cared if she lived or died. That expression undid her. The tears burned her eyes and dampened her skin.
“It was too much to expect that there would be more than one survivor,” he said.
Jane froze and she blinked away the tears rapidly. “More than one? Who else?”
Images of that day flew through her head like a shuttle on a loom and she struggled to remember exactly what had happened and who had been where. Lord Powell for certain had died. Lady Powell had certainly looked dead, and Gerard had confirmed the coachman’s death.
“Lady Powell.” Her father’s gaze was sharp upon Jane again, watching her reaction. “Her injuries were great and I am told she has no memory of the accident. She is recuperating in Darmstadt u
ntil she can be moved to Paris.”
Did Gerard know? Had he let two people live? And if so, why? Jane’s stomach felt as if it had been caught in a vise and it was difficult to breathe deeply.
“That is wonderful,” she managed to say, and yet, dread seeped through her. If Gerard did not know, if Lady Powell had witnessed her husband’s murder as well, then Gerard was in danger. Which was a ridiculous thought. It was a danger of his own making. No matter how she still hoped his actions had been honorable in some way, a secret mission for France or England, he had denied that idea.
She wanted to see him, demand answers, know if he had intentionally let Lady Powell live. He was not infallible, but she could not imagine he would miss such a detail.
“Tell me again what happened.” Her father’s expression was stoic once more, determined.
She shook her head, struggling to bring her thoughts back to the present moment, to her father’s demand. She should tell him the truth. She could do so without revealing what she knew of Gerard’s identity. The fact that Powell had been assassinated might be significant politically for England. Her act of silence might be one of treason. Yet instinct held her back.
Her father doubted some element of her story, but what reason would he have for that? Unless he thought her compromised by brigands and ashamed of it. Or he doubted the accident was an accident, in which case he must know more about Powell than she. Know that he’d had enemies who wished him dead. Or one enemy.
Perhaps Lady Powell remembered more than her father admitted to. But if so, why lie? Unless there was more to this intrigue, something far more complicated than she could even imagine.
“I do not wish to recount it again.”
“You will have to,” he said. “If not now, when you reenter society.”
He was right. People would be curious and the death of the Powells and Jane’s disappearance and subsequent reappearance would not have gone unnoticed. But their motivation would likely not be the same as whatever her father’s unspoken one was.
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