by Gaelen Foley
Claude Bardou, the French agent known as Triton, was the spymaster Fouché’s top man, his secret weapon. Unbeknownst to the young people in the room, Lucien and he had a bit of a history between them.
A bloody one.
Lucien had never told Damien, nor Castlereagh, nor any living soul of his capture and torture at the hands of enemy operatives a year and a half ago, in the spring of 1813. He had killed all of Bardou’s men during his escape; now the only two people alive who knew of his hellish ordeal were Bardou, who had inflicted the pain, and Lucien, who had endured it.
Though he had later found out that Bardou had been under orders from Fouché not to leave any visible scars on Lucien’s body, the brute had succeeded all too well in engraving the pain upon the deepest layers of his mind. Lucien had thought he had put it behind him, especially after the news of Bardou’s death, but it was there in an instant, just beneath the surface, a nightmare rising up for him to face again. In seconds it brought him back to the instinctual, almost feral state in which he had lived those last days before his escape, like an animal at bay. A surge of hatred-soaked memories poured through his veins like acid, like poison. By God, Patrick, he thought grimly, trying to keep hold of his control, if that Frog bastard is indeed alive, I will avenge you yet.
It was not implausible that the Frenchman could be working for the Americans, he thought, rubbing the back of his neck as he paced in jittery agitation. War had raged since 1812 on the shores of the former Colonies. Diplomats from both sides had been arguing for nearly two years in the Netherlands city of Ghent, but had achieved little. The fighting continued, as did the blockade. Meanwhile, Napoleon’s downfall had left French spies like Bardou displaced, unable to return to France where the restored Bourbon monarchy regarded them as traitors, unwelcome throughout the victorious whole of allied Europe.
America was probably the only place where Napoleon’s scattered spies could find asylum, or for true fanatics like Bardou, the place where they could go if they hungered to fight on against the British. President Madison’s besieged administration in Washington—or what was left of America’s new capital city, after British occupation forces had burned it nearly to the ground two months ago—would surely welcome men of Bardou’s formidable skills.
Lucien turned back to his men, his face a hard, marble mask. When he began firing out orders, his voice was little more than a low snarl. “First we must verify it. Kyle, go to the guest wing and get me Rollo Greene. If something is afoot among the Americans, he’ll know what it is. He’ll talk, for a price.”
“Rollo Greene is already gone—left hours ago. I looked at the exit list,” Robert Jenkins of the south quadrant spoke up.
Lucien let out an oath. Wise agents were like skittish alley cats that had to be lured out of their hiding places. They could vanish into thin air if they did not wish to be found. This was especially true of double agents like Rollo Greene, who lived in constant fear of reprisal from someone they had sold out.
“Do you want us to ride out and try to catch up with him? I’d wager he’s on the Bath Road, headed back to London,” Marc offered.
Lucien brooded on it for a long moment. “Do it. Talbert, you’ll stay behind and question Leonidovich with me. You four, ride up out of the valley, but if you don’t find him by the time you reach the Wells Road, come back to Revell Court. It could be a trick.”
“A trick?” Marc echoed in bafflement.
“You may think yourselves invincible, but if Bardou is somewhere on hand, you must not attempt to engage him. In any case, we’ll move the next party up to one week from now. If you don’t find Greene, I’m sure he’ll be back. Till then, we’ll press our other sources for information about Bardou’s alleged resurrection. Now, go.”
Dismissing the girls as well, he sent Talbert to fetch Leonidovich, then waited in the observation room, alone with his demons. Bloody goddamned Claude Bardou.
With a lost look, he expelled a heavy sigh and sat down to wait for Talbert to bring Leonidovich. Resting his elbow on the crude wooden table, he pressed his eyes with his fingertips. God, how he wanted to forget it had happened, but when he closed his eyes, he could still see the cell where he had been kept in darkness and solitude for so many weeks, starved and beaten. He could still taste the blood in his mouth from Bardou’s most imaginative torture—strapping him down and extracting a couple of his molars to punish him for refusing to talk. But the physical pain had been nothing compared the shame of knowing that Bardou had succeeded at last in getting a name out of him: Patrick Kelley.
Lucien shuddered with agonized guilt that felt as though it had been carved in a deep harrow down the center of his soul. Though his father, the marquess, had inducted Lucien into the nuances of diplomacy, it was Kelley, the stout-hearted Irishman, who had taught him his field skills as a spy. Tortured to the point of mindless, semiconscious blathering, Lucien had finally gasped out Kelley’s whereabouts. By the time he had managed to escape his prison hole, he had been too late to warn the Irishman that the French were coming after him. Kelley had already disappeared. He was never seen or heard from again.
“My lord?”
He flicked his eyes open with a fractured gaze, which he tried to hide as he glanced inquiringly over his shoulder. Lily, the most beautiful of his hired courtesans, was leaning against the wall in an inviting pose.
“Is there something you require?” he forced out coolly.
“You seem troubled. I thought you might do with some company.” She held him in a siren’s stare, running her fingertips along the frilled neckline of her gown. Pressing away from the wall, she moved toward him languidly.
His gaze traveled over her with a hunger that was fathoms deeper than her kind could ever satisfy. “Lily, you little temptress,” he said in studied idleness, “you know I do not mix business and pleasure.”
He tensed when she laid her hand on his shoulder and came around to the front of his chair. He scanned her face, in a dangerous mood.
She draped her arms around his neck. “Like you always say, my lord, rules were made to be broken.”
“Not when they’re my rules, pet.”
“Whatever is wrong, I can make you feel better. All you need do is lie back and let me please you. Take me to your bed when you are through here.” She kissed his cheek and whispered, “It would be for free.”
He sat there in stony unresponsiveness as she began kissing his neck, caressing him. Wavering, he closed his eyes. A shudder of need ran through him, but it was Alice Montague who filled his mind. That’s what love is, Lucien. That’s what it does. Who the hell ever talked about love these days, or even believed in it? he thought, while the smell of the harlot filled his nostrils, her musky odor of sweat covered up with sickening sweet perfume. He understood all too well the willingness to cheapen oneself merely to be held in someone’s arms through the night, but he refused to hunger for what did not exist. Love was for poets, and hope was for fools. When Lily grasped him through his breeches with an expert caress, his body responded instantly, but his mind despaired. God, help me, he thought, drowning in the sheer emptiness of this meaningless ritual. He could not do it anymore. Suddenly, this was no longer enough.
Clutching her forearms, he pushed her hands away and set her aside. He rose from the chair and walked away from her to the red-glassed windows, turning his back on her. “I brought my mistress from London.”
Lily did not reply, though he could feel her angry dismay. A moment later, he heard her rise and leave the room—the rustle of her skirts, the pattering of her silk slippers—and then he was alone again. He gazed sorrowfully through the red-glass window at the graceful pillars and the trickling pool. The waters were said to have healing powers, but they had never done anything for him. He folded his arms over his chest, dropped his chin, and mentally scraped himself back into order, for the night’s work was not yet done. But if he could have shared a bed with any woman tonight, it would have been Alice Montague, the only one with
the imminent good sense to turn him down. Who loves you, Lucien? she had asked. What a dismal question. Nobody, Alice. His heavy sigh hung upon the silence. No one even knows me.
When Talbert returned, they questioned Leonidovich and learned nothing. As they were finishing their interrogation, Marc and the other lads returned empty-handed. Rollo Greene had evaded their search. Their duties done, they parted ways near dawn, the lads returning to their military-style bunker by the stable complex, while Lucien, exhausted, left the Grotto at last and went back up to the silent, sleeping house.
A short while later, he walked into his large, elegant bedchamber and crossed before the bank of eastern windows, lifting his shirt off over his head. Undressing in the pearl-gray half-light, he crawled onto his bed, too tired to bother with the covers. He was determined to get at least a couple hours’ sleep before the day began, but the moment he closed his eyes, Claude Bardou’s ugly face was there, or sometimes Patrick Kelley’s laughing one. He drove both torturous images away by losing himself in thoughts of young, delicious Alice Montague. Her shy, skeptical smile, so reluctantly given and therefore so much more precious, charmed him even now. There was a wholeness, a simplicity in her that eased him. He began to relax at last as he savored the memory of touching her, the silken tenderness of her thighs under his hands, the delectable softness of her breasts. The wonder in her response as he had tasted her warm, virginal mouth. So innocent, he thought. It pleased him deeply to know that he had touched her where no one ever had, that he had been the first to kiss her.
As he lay in bed, a diabolical inspiration took shape in his mind, emerging more clearly by the second. His eyes widened as he stared up at the ceiling; then he sat up abruptly, his heart pounding at the notion.
No. It was wrong. A bad, outrageous scheme—but hardly his first. Could a starving man walk away from a feast?
He would never get another chance with Alice Montague. This much he knew, as surely as he knew that a woman like her could change everything for him. If he ever saw her in Town, she would cut him dead like any proper young miss. For God’s sake, she knew him only as “Draco,” the leader of a pagan cult. Even if he tried calling on her, respectable-fashion, Caro, her jealous chaperon, would never let him near the girl. Not after tonight. Worse, he realized, in London Alice would eventually cross paths with Damien and he would look even worse by comparison. He did not think he could bear it.
Rather dazed by the force with which his outrageous notion had struck him, he sank back down onto the mattress and folded his arms behind his head, searching the darkness for answers. Dared he try it?
She would be angry. She wouldn’t like it, but it was her own fault, his wicked side reasoned. She was the one who had willfully trespassed where she didn’t belong. She had barged into his house, into his life, and now she was not getting out of it until he was satisfied. He knew she was planning on leaving first thing in the morning, but there was no way he was letting her go. Maybe the mysterious thread of connection he felt toward her was nothing, but maybe it was the answer to everything.
Turning his face pensively on his pillow, he gazed through his bedroom window at the distant glimmer of dawn along the horizon. He fancied the flame-gold sunrise the very color of her hair.
Chapter 4
Alice slept like a woman drugged—long, deep, and dreamlessly. Even when she awoke a dozen hours later, she lay peacefully in the bed that smelled of lavender, letting awareness drift back to her by degrees, the gentle morning light filtering through her lashes. When she opened her eyes, her gaze fell upon an unfamiliar room. It startled her up onto her elbows. For a second, she forgot where she was—then it all came back to her. With a groan, she lay back down and buried her face in her pillow.
Lucien. He was the first thing on her mind, but she shoved the thought of the silver-eyed devil away with a vengeance. She did not wish to think of him, or last night, or the depravity of the Grotto ever again. Today she would flee home to Glenwood Park and forget such things existed, but Lord, she was not looking forward to this day, she thought. The prospect of spending the next fifteen hours in the close confines of the carriage with her malicious sister-in-law made her shudder.
Hearing a loud clattering outside her chamber window, she sat up, slid down from the high bed, and went to investigate. Peeking through the curtains, she saw a few of the guests’ carriages storming away from Revell Court in a noisy cavalcade.
She whirled to face the room. What time is it? she thought frantically. If the debauchees of the Grotto were already up and about, it must already be midmorning! The mantel clock affirmed her realization. Eleven o’clock! she read with a groan. Now, she, Caro, and the servants would be forced to get a late start on the road. Once more, they would have to travel the last leg of their journey in the dark, but at least the way home was more familiar than the hills of Somerset.
She hurried over to the chest of drawers, where she poured water from the pitcher into the porcelain washbowl, thoughts of Lucien continuously plaguing her. Splashing the fresh, bracingly cold water on her skin, she resolved to forget him. He was tricky, dangerous, and bad. She could not begin to figure him out, but he was hardly the lackadaisical diplomat she had been led to expect. He was as fierce as a tiger, as quick as an adder, and as wily as a fox, and when he wanted to, she thought as a few droplets of water rolled sensuously down her throat into the valley between her breasts, he could be totally, irresistibly charming.
She shivered and kept moving, toweling her face and chest dry. She slipped into the fresh chemise and clean stockings she had stashed in her satchel. Rolling the thin, white stockings up and fastening them to her garters, she ignored the little thrilling flashes of memory of his hands skimming so expertly up her thighs. Such thoughts! She did her best to keep her mind fixed on poor little Harry, who was waiting for her to come home.
Rising briskly to don her dark blue carriage gown once more, she prayed that she would never cross paths with Lucien in Society—especially not this Season, for by then, she would have turned twenty-two, which was practically at a woman’s last prayer. That meant it was time to choose once and for all which of her longtime suitors she would accept for her husband.
Blast! she thought suddenly, pausing with a scowl. She had forgotten all about her suitors last night when Lucien had turned her own pointed question upon her, asking who loved her. Unfortunately, she knew why she had forgotten they existed in that moment—because they paled into invisibility next to him. She batted away this vexing realization like a badminton shuttlecock. “Draco” was beyond redemption. If any woman ever agreed to marry him, Alice felt sorry for her.
All three of her suitors were agreeable, sincere young gentlemen of good family and fine prospects; all had courted her chivalrously “by the book” for the past four Seasons since her debut. Roger was clever; Tom was brave; Freddie was amusing. Only, in her heart of hearts, Alice wanted a man who was clever, brave, and amusing all in one person, and so much more. Bless them, they had been so patient with her, waiting for so long for her to make up her mind, for all the good it had done them. But her tepid reaction to her suitors was not the only problem.
Larger still loomed the fact that she could not possibly leave Harry with Caro acting such a thoughtless and irresponsible mother. She could never simply abandon her nephew to the care of servants, no matter how good and capable Peg and the others were. A person needed family around them to grow properly—her own experience had shown her that. If Caro did not start acting like a mother to her son, Alice was never going to be able to leave Glenwood Park and marry. She would end up on the shelf, never having a child of her own to love. With a frustrated sigh, she plunked down on the stool before the mirror, pinning her hair up in a sleek topknot with a few curls dusting her neck.
Just then, a knock sounded on the door. She glanced toward the door in the reflection. “Come in!”
At her call, the door opened and a plump, cheerful maid carried in her breakfast tray. Remov
ing the silver lid, Alice discovered an assortment of mouth-watering pastries and toast with various jams and honey, fruit, and a slab of the local Cheddar Gorge cheese, but her eyes widened with intrigued delight to see the pink rose laid carefully alongside her silverware. Resting under its thorny stem was a small piece of fine linen paper folded in thirds and sealed with a drop of red wax.
She reached for it at once while the maid poured her tea. She cracked the seal and unfolded it with a slight tremble in her hands; then she read, hearing his deep, smoothly modulated voice in her mind, so casually seductive:
Good morning, Alice. Come to me in the library at your earliest convenience.
Your servant, etc.
L.X.K.
An order! Well, she should have known. His high-handedness made her indignant, but the thought of seeing him again made her slightly light-headed. She read the note five times over, her heart pumping with fear and thrill. What did he want with her now? she wondered, trying to summon a proper annoyance. Should she even heed the summons?
There was no possibility of eating much after that. The maid carefully presented her with her teacup, but Alice’s hands shook so that a few drops sloshed onto the saucer and nearly onto her gown. All she could force past her lips was a single slice of toast and jam. Admittedly, she was highly curious to see him one last time. She had hoped to slip away from Revell Court without having to clash with him again, but she should have known the man was too perverse to make it so easy on her. Perhaps he wished to apologize for his shocking advances he had made on her last night—or perhaps, she mused with a slight, wry smile, he merely wanted to try again. She decided that it could not hurt to indulge him briefly, since she was on her way out, in any case. After all, it was beneath her pride to hide from him like a coward.
As soon as she had finished eating and had quickly scrubbed her teeth, she stole a nervous glance in the mirror, frowned at the high blush of anticipation in her cheeks, and smoothed her hair, then asked the maid to conduct her to the library.