“Yes.”
“Merde.” Jacques shook his head. “It was a risk to reveal my destination, but they had promised to continue our rather profitable arrangement.”
Gabriel growled low in his throat at the man’s casual words. The profitable arrangement had no doubt cost the lives of dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of British soldiers over the past year.
“I assure you that your arrangement is at an end,” he snapped.
The mocking amusement returned to Jacques’s face. “True, but thankfully they were not my only associates and I do have Talia to offer me comfort.” His smile widened. “And speaking of your beautiful wife, I truly should ensure that she has not been unduly disturbed by your unwelcome arrival. Bonsoir, Ashcombe.”
Gabriel rushed forward just as the door was slammed in his face. With a curse he pounded his fist against the thick wood.
“Touch her and I will kill you, you bastard.”
CHAPTER NINE
IT SEEMED AN ETERNITY had passed before Talia heard the sound of approaching footsteps, although she knew it had been less than an hour since André had returned her to her luxurious chambers and firmly locked the door.
Anxiously pacing from one end of the room to the other, Talia came to an abrupt halt as the key was turned in the lock, and the door was pressed open.
“Jacques,” she breathed, pressing a hand to her quivering stomach as the Frenchman strolled to the center of the carpet with his usual grace. “What have you done to my…” As always she stumbled over the unfamiliar word. “Gabriel?” she instead muttered.
A hint of satisfaction touched Jacques’s handsome features.
“You cannot even bear to claim him as your husband, can you, ma petite?”
Her chin tilted. She was tired, frustrated and terrified that Gabriel might be seriously harmed or worse, all because of his impetuous urge to rescue her.
“Do not presume that you comprehend my feelings for Gabriel,” she warned. “The truth is that I do not understand them myself.”
“He does not deserve your loyalty.”
Talia’s lips twisted. Jacques did have a point.
Gabriel had hardly been a doting husband. Not even when he had arrived to heroically sweep her back to England.
But the mere thought of the irksome fiend being hurt was enough to make her stomach heave and her heart ache.
“That is for me to decide.”
Jacques shook his head ruefully. “So forgiving.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “You are avoiding my question.”
“His lordship is comfortably settled in the cellars.” Jacques looked as if he had just bitten into a lemon. “For now at least.”
“What do you intend to do with him?”
With a restless motion Jacques moved toward the mantel to arrange the delicate porcelain figurines.
“I will admit I am greatly tempted to tie him to the nearest tree and use him as target practice for my soldiers.”
“Dear God…no.”
He turned back to meet her horrified gaze. “Fortunately for your husband, I am not a self-indulgent aristocrat who thinks of nothing beyond his own pleasure.”
“What do you mean?”
Jacques shrugged. “The Earl of Ashcombe is an arrogant cretin, but I do not doubt his mother will be willing to offer a tidy sum of money for his return. I intend to send a demand for his ransom tonight.”
Talia bit her lower lip, torn between relief that Gabriel was to be spared and dismay at the thought of his mother being subjected to the terrifying ordeal of knowing her son was being held captive by French spies.
“You cannot be so cruel.”
“It is what must be done.” Jacques did not even bother to appear apologetic. “I have hungry mouths to feed and dangerously empty coffers.”
“Tell me how much you will request for Gabriel’s release and I will ensure that it is delivered to you,” she countered. “There is no need to bully an old woman.”
His brows snapped together. “Have you forgotten that old woman has publicly shunned you since your marriage?”
Talia flinched. Of course she had not forgotten. Nor was she naïve enough to imagine that the dowager countess would ever consider her as anything other than an embarrassment that should be hidden from society.
But, while the Ashcombes might not consider her worthy, Talia was now a member of the family, and she would do whatever was necessary to protect them.
“What does it matter so long as you have the money to feed your children?”
“You…” Jacques gave a shake of his head, regarding her with an odd expression. “What?”
“I have forgotten there are still truly good people in this world.” He stepped forward, gently brushing her heavy curls from her cheek. “You terrify me.”
She shifted with unease beneath the intensity of his stare.
“Now you are taunting me.”
“Non.” His fingers brushed down the line of her jaw. “You are one of those women who tempt a man to reform his sinful ways. Dangerous.”
Talia frowned at the absurdity of his claim.
She had been at the mercy of men since the day she’d been born. Her father. Harry. Gabriel. And now even Jacques. All of them had forced their will upon her.
“Very charming, but if I have discovered nothing else it is that no man is willing to reform his sinful ways for a mere woman. Or at least, not for me.” She scowled as Jacques’s laughter rang through the room. “What is so amusing?”
His eyes shimmered with a rueful humor. “I have devoted my entire life to gaining freedom for the French people, even when it meant returning to England and deceiving those neighbors who trusted me. And yet I have risked everything to bring you with me rather than disposing of you as I should have.”
“You could never kill an innocent,” she protested.
“I have done far worse, ma petite.” A wistful smile curved his lips. “But when you look at me with those beautifully trusting eyes, I long to be the man that you see.”
“Jacques.”
“And what you have done to me pales in comparison to the destruction that you have wrought in your poor husband,” he continued.
“That is not amusing.”
Jacques clicked his tongue. “Surely you must be aware that before your marriage the Earl of Ashcombe was notorious for being an arrogant, overly proud gentleman who remained aloof from all but a few privileged friends?”
“I suppose he was considered aloof,” she grudgingly conceded.
“He was a coldhearted bastard,” Jacques corrected in dry tones, “but within a few weeks you have reduced him to a possessive barbarian who recklessly charged into danger the moment he realized that you were missing.”
“That is…” She sucked in a deep breath. “You are being absurd.”
“The poor man is currently roaring like a demented madman in my cellars.” His smile held an edge of satisfaction. He was evidently pleased by the thought of Gabriel suffering. “What further proof do you desire?”
For a moment of utter madness, Talia allowed herself to believe Gabriel had come to consider her as more than a burden that must be suffered for the sake of his family pride. But she hastily squashed the ridiculous notion.
This was not the time or place for absurdities.
“All I desire is to be allowed to return to England with my husband.” She pulled from his lingering touch. “How much money do you require?”
He folded his arms over his chest, regarding her with a brooding gaze.
“I said that I would be willing to trade the Earl of Ashcombe for a sizeable donation to my orphans. I did not include you in the bargain.”
A chill settled in the pit of Talia’s stomach. “You promised to release me once the battle with Wellesley had begun.”
“Perhaps I find that I cannot.”
“Jacques.”
“You are weary, ma petite,” he muttered, moving to brush a light kiss over h
er lips before crossing firmly toward the door. “Go to bed and we will discuss this in the morning.”
Talia watched him leave the room, closing and locking the door behind his slender form.
Surely he must be teasing her?
For all of his charming flirtations, he could not truly desire to keep her in France. Could he?
Chewing her bottom lip, Talia paced the floor, shifting through her limited options.
For once she did not intend to sit idly by and wait to discover what new disaster fate had concocted for her.
On this occasion she intended to take command of her own destiny.
SOPHIA REYNARD moved through the sleepy palace with a proud grace that had once made her the toast of the Parisian stage and had captured the adoration of her vast audience.
Although some would claim it was the beauty of her pale ivory features contrasted with her auburn curls that had earned her fame. Or her expressive eyes that were closer to black than brown. Or even her tall, willowy form that appeared elegant whether in rags or, as it was now, draped in a sapphire silk dressing gown with black velvet bows begging to be undone.
Sophia, however, had always known it was her acting skills that had catapulted her from her mother’s fetid rooms in Halles, near the old Cemetery of the Innocents to the finest mansions in Chaussée d’Antin and the Faubourg Saint-Germain.
Onstage she could capture the humor of Molière or the tragedy of Racine. And offstage…well, that was where her genuine talent was revealed.
With the skill that only the finest courtesans were able to acquire, she was capable of becoming any gentleman’s deepest desire.
She could be shy or naughty. Timid or daring. Sweet or vulgar. She could converse with the most celebrated intellectuals or tell jokes that would make a sailor blush. And most important of all, she could make a man feel as if he were without equal when he pulled her into his arms.
It was those talents that had allowed her to survive the revolution even when her aristocratic lovers were being slaughtered. And eventually to capture the interest of Napoleon for several months after his rise to power.
She was a born survivor.
Unfortunately, she was not always wise.
She had met Jacques Gerard in Paris five years before and for the first time in her thirty years she had been immediately bewitched.
It went beyond a predictable attraction to his handsome face and fine form, although she was not yet so jaded she could not appreciate the flutters of excitement that raced through her when he glanced in her direction. Indeed, she had suddenly been transported back to the long-ago days when she’d still been young and naïve enough to believe in love.
But it was more his restless intelligence and the ardent intensity that simmered about him.
He was radiant, incandescent.
Whether he was plotting war strategies with Napoleon or seducing her into his bed, he was driven by passions that set her body and her heart—her very soul—on fire.
Within a few days she had fallen deeply in love with the elusive man, remaining faithful to him despite their long times apart, as Jacques spent months and sometimes years in England.
Not that she was foolish enough to assume he was equally celibate. He was a man, after all. Who of them was not swift enough to expect loyalty from a woman while they happily bedded every maiden willing to lift her skirts?
Still, Jacques had never displayed any affection or lingering interest for any other female.
Until now…
Pausing to smooth her expression into one of pleasant anticipation, Sophia stepped into Jacques’s private chambers, her heart missing a painful beat at the sight of him leaning against the windowsill, a half-empty glass of brandy in his slender hands.
He appeared remarkably suited to the lavish gold-and-ivory room with his elegant beauty and his slender body attired in a brocade robe. In truth, she had always wondered if he had more noble blood running through him than he wished to admit. He looked far more like an aristocrat than a peasant.
It was a suspicion she was careful to keep to herself. He would find nothing amusing in the notion there was blue blood running through his veins.
Especially tonight, she ruefully acknowledged, noting the tense set of his shoulders and his grim expression.
She faltered momentarily. She had sought out Jacques to demand explanations.
But did she truly desire to hear what he might say?
The cowardly part of her was not at all certain she was prepared to discover the truth. Not if it were destined to crush her stupid heart.
But she had not survived for thirty years by being a coward. Sucking in a deep breath, she forced herself to cross past the gilt beechwood chairs and the oval parquetry table inset with Sevres porcelain that was placed near the white marble fireplace. She had nearly reached the scrolled rosewood desk that groaned beneath the maps, stacks of waiting messages, journals and scribbled notes when Jacques sensed her presence and whirled to regard her with a scowl.
Sophia kept her smile intact as she came to a smooth halt. “Am I intruding?”
Just for a heartbeat an emotion perilously close to regret touched his handsome face, as if she had reminded him of something he preferred to forget. Then, with his usual charm, he stepped forward to lift her fingers to his lips.
“Sophia, you are a vision of loveliness as always,” he murmured, speaking in French with a hint of an English accent that always sent a tingle of pleasure down her spine. “Is that a new dressing gown?”
“Oui. I discovered a very talented modiste in Paris while I counted the days until your return to France.” She deliberately lowered her voice to a sensuous invitation. “I have been anxiously awaiting an opportunity to reveal my treasures.”
“The treasure is not to be found in silks or satins. It is you, ma belle.” His dark gaze ran an appreciative survey down her body. “You would be breathtaking in a sackcloth.”
“A treasure that is easily forgotten, it would seem.”
She instantly regretted her impetuous words as he released her hand and took a step backward, his expression guarded.
Sacré bleu. What was the matter with her? She had once been a master of such games.
“Ah, you have come to chastise me for having neglected you,” he accused.
“I would hope I am not so foolish as to chastise my lover. There is no more certain means to tarnish a man’s affection.” She sought to keep her tone teasing. “I will admit, however, that I am curious as to what has kept you so occupied that you cannot spare so much as an hour to spend in my company.”
“Forgive me, ma belle.” He waved a hand toward the nearby desk. “I fear that I had no notion that organizing a handful of spies could be so time-consuming.”
“So your distraction has nothing to do with your English guests?”
A surge of anger hardened his features. “Of course it does. The black plague—”
“Black plague?” she interrupted in confusion.
“More properly known as the Earl of Ashcombe,” he grimly clarified, “has not only had the audacity to trespass into my home, but he has ruined a perfect opportunity for our soldiers to strike a mortal blow against our enemies.” He clenched his hands. “To make matters worse, he has exposed my associate in the Home Office who was providing a vital source of information. It will take me months to undo the damage he has wrought.”
“Ah, I see. A black plague, indeed,” she readily agreed, her gaze lingering on the tight line of his jaw. Was his resentment caused by the Earl’s destruction of his secret arrangements or Ashcombe’s attempt to rescue his young bride? “What will you do with him?”
Jacques shrugged. “I am in the process of composing a letter to the dowager countess demanding a ransom for the return of her son. I do not doubt that she will be eager to share a large portion of her vast fortune to ensure the earl’s safety.”
She stroked a dark curl that she had deliberately left to lay against the swel
l of her ivory bosom.
“What of his wife?”
Jacques visibly stiffened. “Talia?”
“Oui.”
“I fear the dowager has no love for the current countess,” he said dryly, his thoughts unreadable. “She would be more likely to pay for me to keep Talia as to have her returned.”
“And will you?”
“Will I what?”
“Keep her.”
A keen pain sliced through Sophia’s heart as Jacques abruptly turned to pace toward the fireplace. So her suspicions were not mere fancies.
Not entirely surprising.
According to the rumors, the Countess of Ashcombe had managed to bewitch every male from the most seasoned soldier to the youngest orphan with her ready friendliness and kind heart.
And, of course, what man could possibly resist the thought of a young and beautiful woman who was alone and so terribly vulnerable?
“It is a decision to which I will have to give some thought,” he muttered.
Sophia was too intelligent to press for an answer. Instead she carefully eased her way past his instinctive need to play hero to the more prosaic side of his nature.
“Her father is very wealthy, is he not?” she asked softly.
He shrugged. “As rich as Croesus, if the gossips are to be believed.”
“Then surely he would be willing to pay a ransom for his only child?”
His scowl returned. “It is difficult to know with men such as Silas Dobson. He was willing to sell Talia to the highest title, so it is obvious he has little affection for her.” His voice was edged with disgust. Jacques found social climbers as repugnant as nobles. “He might very well decide his daughter is no longer his responsibility.”
“There is only one means to discover if he is willing to pay,” she gently urged. “I shall be happy to assist you in writing the ransom note…”
“Non.”
“Jacques?”
His eyes blazed with a warning that could not be ignored. “The Countess of Ashcombe is my responsibility and I will decide her future without interference. Is that understood?”
Sophia bit back her words of protest. Mon Dieu. Had she not caused enough harm for one night?
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