Velvet v-3

by Jane Feather

  Nathaniel straightened and stood looking down on the sleeping child, the embodiment of his guilt. For nearly seven years he'd carried that guilt. But in the last few days something had happened to the burden. Jake wasn't the embodiment of anything-he was a small boy with needs, both basic and complex. And in his own self-indulgent morass of guilt, the father had failed to address the child's needs.

  He turned away from the bed and became aware of Gabrielle standing in the doorway connecting the two rooms. She inclined her head in an almost questioning gesture, her eyes gravely smiling.

  She had given him back his son. No, not given back. He hadn't had his son in any real sense. Gabrielle had given him Jake. Whatever else she was, whatever else she might have done, she'd shown him the joys and responsibilities of fatherhood and had forged the bond that he now felt so powerfully with the sleeping child.

  The lamp from the room behind her set fire alight in her deliberately disheveled hair. Her outrageous, lascivious costume accentuated every luscious curve of her body, and that aura of sensual mischief pulsed around her. A joyous throb of sexual energy coursed through him, obliterating all but desire.

  He moved toward her, and she stepped into the room behind.

  Her eyes held his as he closed the door gently. For a moment he leaned against it, and the excitement built as they both stood still, eyes held by the invisible thread of pulsating arousal.

  Suddenly Nathaniel laughed, a warm, rich sound of joy. He sprang toward her, picked her up, and tossed her onto the bed.

  "Brigand!" His mouth came down on hers, his tongue delving in the sweet cavern beneath. "Brigand," he murmured against her lips. "God, I want you. It seems an eternity."

  Her answering chuckle was a soft breath on his face, and her hands raked through his hair. He reached down and pulled her skirt up to her thighs, exposing the cheap cotton stockings. His fingers brushed across the remaining notes thrust into her garter.

  "Now, just which one of us is for sale, I wonder," he mused, raising his head to look down at her.

  "You, if I can afford you," she responded promptly.

  He sat back on his heels, astride her thighs, and slowly pulled out the notes, one by one, from their hiding place. He counted them with great deliberation, then pushed them into the pocket of his britches, announcing solemnly, "I can be bought for such a sum."

  "I'm relieved, sir," Gabrielle whispered, stretching beneath him, arching her back, pointing her toes, feeling the muscular energy ripple through her. "I have bought you in order that you should take me."

  "The pleasure will be all mine, ma'am."

  "Oh, I trust not, my lord…"

  Gabrielle had worried about how she would feel bringing Nathaniel to the place where she'd shared so much joy with Guillaume, but as the night passed in hours of glory, she realized that it didn't matter.

  When Nathaniel pried an oyster off its pearly shell and dropped it into Gabrielle's readily opened mouth, she remembered Guillaume doing the same thing. The memory was precious but not sullied. When he moved the damp stem of the champagne glass in a cold caress over her belly, setting her skin fluttering, she only smiled with languid pleasure at a bodily memory of a similar response long ago.

  "So where did your husband fit into the eternal triangle?" Nathaniel asked lazily as dawn began to break.

  "It was a marriage of convenience. Julien was already married when we met. I married Roland because one has to be married." She shrugged as if it had been a matter for total indifference.

  "And what happened to them both?"

  "Roland died of typhus."

  "And the lover?"

  Oh, no, she wasn't ready for this. Suddenly the euphoria was shattered and she understood that she'd been fooling herself all night. The memories flooded back, and she turned her head aside, reaching across Nathaniel's belly for the champagne glass on the table.

  "He was killed," she said. "In the line of duty."

  Nathaniel laid a hand on her back and immediately felt the strain beneath the damask skin. "You loved him," he stated quietly.

  "Very much. I don't want to talk about it anymore." Not toyou, of all people.

  "You're still mourning?" he persisted.

  "I think I always will to some extent. Please, can we go to sleep now?"

  Nathaniel took her chin between finger and thumb and brought her face around. Immediately she closed her eyes as if to hide the pain in them. "Look at me," he said, softly insistent.

  Her eyes opened reluctantly, and they were sheened with tears. He took the glass from her and gathered her into his arms, holding her against his chest as he'd held Jake, soothing the child's fear.

  Gabrielle began to weep. She wept for Guillaume and the love they'd had, but she also wept in confusion and terror because somehow she was beginning to feel just as deeply for the man who had snatched Guillaume from her. How was it possible to feel such a powerful and obsessive and impossible love when one should feel only hate? How was it possible to feel such overwhelming passion when one should desire only vengeance?

  Nathaniel stroked her back, bending his head to press his lips to the curve of her neck as his hand smoothed over her buttocks in a caress that imparted warmth and reassurance rather than sensuality. She was jangling, he could hear and feel her discordance. He felt it himself, this terrible confusion of emotions when clear logic and absolute fact was routed again and again by the voracious hungers of lust.

  Gabrielle fell asleep first, her head pillowed in the crook of his neck, one arm flung across his body. Nathaniel, despite his own fatigue, lay awake listening to the sounds of a house that worked at night.

  He realized that for the first time since Helen's death, he was thinking beyond the present, envisaging a future where the landscape was vibrant and full of promise. But how could the English spymaster be envisaging such a future with a French spy? It didn't make any sense.

  He finally fell asleep, no nearer to an answer.

  When he awoke, he was alone in the bed, daylight pouring through the unshuttered windows. Jake’s chattering voice came from the next room, intersperced with Gabrielle's more measured tones. Throwing asidethe covers, he stood up and stretched and yawned. The room was warm, the fire freshly made up. It was anamazing luxury after the cheerless attic on rue Bude. not to mention that dreadful day in the crypt. His body felt good, suffused with the energy that a night of energetic and blissful lovemaking always engendered.

  "Did we wake you?" Gabrielle's voice came from the connecting door and he turned with a half-smile. She was wearing her harlot's dress again and still managing to look achingly desirable, although he could detect tiny lines of strain around her eyes and Something new? he wondered, or just the residue of lastnight's torrent of weeping?

  Jake popped up behind her, neat and tidy for the first time since they'd left England. "Bonjour, Papa. Gabby taught me to say that. It means good morning." He beamed at his father, examining his naked body curiously. "Don't you sleep in a nightshirt?"

  "Sometimes," Nathaniel said, raising an eyebrow at Gabrielle, who turned aside, hiding her smile. "I'd better get dressed. Any chance of breakfast in this place? Or are they all enjoying a well-earned rest after their labors?"

  "I'll ring. I had some hot water brought up, so you can shave if you wish." She gestured to the steaming ewer on the marble-topped dresser, and went to pull the bellrope beside the door.

  Nathaniel enjoyed the luxury of a sponge bath with ample hot water in the fire-warmed room. Gabrielle sat on the window seat, her appearance of relaxation just that. The world had reasserted itself this morning as she had known it had to. Last night's interlude had been glorious, but the time for glorious interludes was over.

  Jake kept up a stream of chatter and questions, his ordeals apparently forgotten in the warm and fear-free present.

  Two maids brought breakfast, laying it on a round table beside the window. If they were aware of Nathaniel shaving, still naked, at the dresser, they gave no sign. Pre
sumably they didn't find it an unusual sight.

  "Come and sit down, Jake." Gabrielle lifted him onto a chair. "There's hot chocolate for you and a brioche." She broke a fragrant round brioche and spread it liberally with strawberry jam. "Brioches don't have crusts," she informed him. "But if you have bread, then you should dip the crust in your chocolate. Like so." She suited action to words.

  "That's bad manners," Jake said, wide-eyed.

  "Not in France," Gabrielle said firmly. "It's very polite. Ask Papa."

  Jake giggled. "Is it, Papa?"

  "In the nursery it may be," Nathaniel said, pulling on his britches. "But not in serious company."

  "Stuffy!" Gabrielle accused, pouring hot milk into two deep bowls before adding the steaming, fragrant coffee. "I dip my bread in my coffee wherever I am."

  "Well, we both know how shamelessly you set bad examples." He shrugged into his shirt, tucking it into the waist of his britches before coming to the table.

  "What's that mean?" Jake demanded, his eyes bright with curiosity.

  "Never you mind." Nathaniel ruffled his hair and sat down opposite him. "We have to decide how best to travel, Gabrielle. If it weren't for Jake, who'll be noticeable, I'd say we'd draw less attention traveling by stage, at least until we get into the countryside."

  "It would fit better with your identity as a servant," Gabrielle agreed. "You could pass Jake off as a nephew, or something. I'm sure he'd be able to pretend he was invisible again, wouldn't you, Jake?"

  She dipped a crust of bread into her coffee bowl and expertly carried the dripping bread to her mouth, spilling not a drop. Jake watched her, fascinated, his mouth full of brioche.

  " 'Course I could," he mumbled.

  "And what of your identity?" Nathaniel broke into the brioche. "Perhaps you should travel independently."

  "I think I must stay here," Gabrielle said. She tore a hunk off the baguette for Jake, cautioning, "You have to be careful of the drips if you're going to dip it."

  "Oh? Why is that?" Nathaniel's voice was calm as he waited to hear how she would explain herself. He now understood the reason for this new strain. She'd betrayed her French masters by saving him. There was no evidence against her at this point, but if she left France at the same time their quarry disappeared, then she'd incriminate herself. Fouche would hunt her down wherever she was. Not even her godfather, even if he was so inclined, could protect her from the knife in the night. He leaned back in his chair, cradling his coffee bowl between his hands, regarding her steadily.

  "It would look strange if I were just to disappear," Gabrielle said. "Talleyrand would wonder about it. Catherine is having a ball next week to welcome me back. It would be discourteous, unless there was an absolutely vital reason for leaving, like a death or a wedding with the DeVanes, or something."

  Not bad, Nathaniel thought with detachment. Not bad at all.

  "So you'll follow when you can?"

  "Of course."

  Jake shifted in his chair. Something had changed. Gabby was looking sad and Papa's mouth had gone thin again. His tummy tightened and he pushed away his hot chocolate. Gabby wasn't going to come with them. "Gabby's coming with us," he said. If he said it, then perhaps they'd say yes, she was.

  "No, love, I can't. Not at the moment." Gabby patted his hand.

  "Gabrielle has things to do here," Nathaniel said, his voice flat.

  Jake felt his lip tremble. They were going to go on that horrible boat again and Gabby wasn't going to be there. A tear splashed on the table, and he pushed back his chair and ran into the next room before they could tell he was crying.

  "I'm sorry," Gabrielle said helplessly. "But I don't see what else I can do."

  "No," Nathaniel agreed steadily. "Neither do I." Suddenly he was unutterably weary of this hideous charade. The desire for the clean knife of truth, even though it would sever everything, took possession of his soul. His gaze held hers.

  The silence elongated. The fire hissed and the clock ticked. Nathaniel's eyes were for once readable, burning their message deep into hers, and comprehension crept over Gabrielle, lifting the fine hairs on her neck, setting her scalp crawling.

  Nathaniel watched shock and understanding flood the dark gray depths of her eyes.

  "You know," she said finally.

  "Yes."

  Gabrielle cupped her chin in her palms. "Since when? I thought I'd been so careful."

  "Since Burley Manor. Ifound your code in the Voltaire."

  She raised her eyes and looked at him, her expression swept clear of all emotion. "Iwasn't clever enough for you."

  "No," he agreed. "Was Iclever enough for you?"

  "No."

  The space between them was a cool, clear wash of cleanliness. He wanted no explanations or excuses, and Gabrielle would not offer them.

  "So what now?" Gabrielle asked.

  "We go our separate ways. What we know of each other dies here." He stretched his hand across the table.

  She put her own in his. "Iwish it could be different."

  "But it can't."

  "I'll say good-bye to Jake and then I'll leave."

  "Before you go-"

  "Yes?"

  "What we know of each other dies here, unless… unless you ever oppose me professionally again. You understand that, Gabrielle? If that ever happens, it will be as if we had never met before."

  Gabrielle shivered. Despite the bleakness in his eyes, the despairing recognition that matched her own that all was at an end between them, there was unmistakable menace in the statement. The English spymaster would not forgive and forget an enemy a second time.

  She nodded silently and went into the next chamber.

  Nathaniel heard her voice in the other room, then he heard the door to the corridor close on the sound of his son's sobbing. He heard her footsteps, light on the stairs. He heard the front door open and close. He stood before the window and watched as she disappeared in her black cloak around the corner into Pigalle.

  Chapter 21

  On June fourteenth Napoleon defeated the Russians at Friedland and Alexander finally yielded to the wisdom of his brother, Grand Duke Constantine, and sued the French emperor for peace.

  The news created great excitement in the salons of Paris, where Gabrielle had passed the past months in a state of limbo. She had passed similar periods- ostensibly taking lively part in court life, talking, smiling, flirting-during her affair with Guillaume, when there had been deserts of time between their meetings, and she'd lived in fear and emptiness, and none of her desolation had shown on her face or in her eyes.

  "Now, mon enfant, the fun starts," Talleyrand announced three days after the battle. He came into her apartments, flourishing a dispatch bearing the Napoleonic eagle.

  "Alexander is sending his plenipotentiary to the emperor requesting a truce, one that I suspect will leave England isolated. I am summoned to Napoleon's side to assist with the terms of the truce. You shall accompany me."

  "Me? Why, sir?" Gabrielle stared in surprise.

  "I shall need a hostess," he said blandly. "Catherine cannot perform such a task with either discretion or distinction, as you know. So you shall take her place. No one will consider it strange."

  "I'd been thinking of going to Valencay," she said. She strolled over to the window, looking down at the street. The plane trees had the dusty look of city foliage in summer, and a mongrel cur lay in the shade, his tongue lolling. She'd been intending to visit Talleyrand's country chateau for a few weeks. She'd often stayed there in the old days, waiting for Guillaume. Once or twice they'd had more than a week together in the idyllic country setting, undisturbed by any but the most discreet staff. They'd fished the river and swam in the deep pool under the bridge. They'd ridden over the countryside under the moonlight, picnicked and picked peaches and greengages in the lush orchards. And they'd made love-under the trees, in the river, in the hayloft, in the fields-whenever and wherever the mood had taken them.

  "This will offer you great
er distraction," her godfather pointed out.

  "You think I'm in need of distraction?" She turned from the window, raising an ironic eyebrow.

  Talleyrand made no response to what was a rhetorical question. Gabrielle was a wan shadow of her former self. She had little interest in anything, and none at all in the business of espionage. The bitter end to her encounter with Nathaniel Praed had engendered a deep loathing for anything clandestine. She slept little and ate less, and he'd been an impotent observer of her suffering for too long. It was too much akin to the dreadful weeks after Guillaume's death, and he found himself wishing that she didn't have to feel so deeply, didn't have to throw her entire self, body and soul, into her love affairs. But he also knew that that was Gabrielle's nature and there was no changing it. All he could hope to do was alleviate her pain as and when he could.

  Gabrielle smiled in rueful resignation as he merely held out the dispatch to her.

  She read it and then shrugged in acceptance. "So when do we leave?"

  Talleyrand couldn't conceal his satisfaction. "We travel to Tilsit in the morning. It will be a tedious journey, no doubt. But at least it's summer and the roads are no longer enmired."

  Tilsit was on the border of Russia and Prussia, a small town on the River Niemen, and it took a week of hard journeying to reach it. Gabrielle rode beside the carriage whenever she could, but she was soon heartily sick of the primitive way stations where they passed the nights and the rancid meat and hard bread that passed for decent fare.

  Her godfather was a poor traveling companion, nursing his aching leg and saying very little, his brain ceaselessly at work on plotting his campaign.

  They arrived in Tilsit on the evening of June twenty-fourth. The minister's staff had traveled ahead and had laid claim to a house on the left bank-the Prussian side of the river-to accommodate the Minister for Foreign Affairs and his hostess. It was one of the larger houses in the modest town as befitted the prince's consequence.

  The town was taken over by Napoleon's entourage and his Imperial Guard. His victorious army camped in the surrounding fields, as usual living off the land with blithe disregard for the peasantry. They were a conquered people, after all, and Napoleon had little time for his defeated enemies unless they could be useful to him. Alexander, the Czar of all the Russias, he believed, could be useful in the battle he fought against the intransigent English. Therefore, he would treat him accordingly.