by Allegra Gray
She always dressed to suit the current fashion—but tonight was the first time in years she could recall dressing to suit a man.
Would Philippe notice? Compared to the Parisian fashions worn by the ladies of his acquaintance, her attire was nothing remarkable.
Bea lifted her chin. Those others mattered not. She was the one who held his interest now. She just had to be witty and urbane enough to keep it.
And in case that wasn’t enough of a challenge, there was one other small matter—making sure the Frenchman never learned that every moment she spent attempting to charm him was also a moment spent spying on him.
Bea swallowed the bubble of hysterical laughter rising in her throat. What had she been thinking, to agree to Viscount Castlereagh’s plan? She couldn’t do this. Everyone would see right through her—or if not everyone, Philippe most certainly would.
But the artist had—unknowingly, she hoped—provided her the perfect opportunity to do the Foreign Secretary’s bidding. When she attended the theater this evening, she could observe both the Wilbournes and Philippe.
She was confused enough about her feelings toward the French artist without having to question his every move. Did he have an ulterior motive beyond the one she already suspected—beyond, that is, seducing her? If he did, could she keep her wits about her enough to discern that motive?
If he kissed her again, it would take every ounce of rationality Bea possessed to remember her duty to England.
Oh, lord. She really was a spy now. Charity would have gleefully jumped at this chance—which was probably why the duke had pulled her away from the meeting with the Foreign Secretary before the idea occurred to her.
She arranged a silky shawl around her shoulders. The evening was warm enough to leave heavier coats behind. She took one last glance in the mirror. Ready.
Philippe was due to arrive any minute. She wouldn’t add insult to injury—not that he would know—by keeping him waiting.
To Bea, the idea of spying on people she knew and liked held an undercurrent of disloyalty. Whatever faults she might have, she’d always considered herself a steadfast friend. She prayed her observations would quickly prove them all innocent. Then the pursuit of the men she’d seen at Vauxhall Gardens could be left to those trained in such business.
Bea was nearly certain it was not the Wilbournes themselves, but one of their servants who was involved—who else would have had access to pin the note into her pelisse the night of the art salon? It would have drawn far too much notice for the lord or lady hosting the event to go poking around the coat room. Perhaps he was even one of the men she’d seen that night at Vauxhall. But she was not familiar enough with the Wilbournes’ staff to match the faces she’d seen with a name or position.
Philippe’s carriage arrived, plain black but well-appointed. She saw it from the window and, though her heart leapt with the urge to run and meet him, she managed to wait just long enough to be seemly—but not a second more. Bea stepped out to the waiting vehicle and allowed the footman to assist her up.
She sensed him before she saw him in the dim light. For a moment he said nothing as she took a seat and the door closed. Slowly her vision adjusted to the shadows.
“Beatrice,” he finally greeted her, and she thought she heard a thousand meanings in the one word.
“Philippe.”
His eyes, blue even in the darkness, mesmerized her. He reached across the carriage to take her hand.
“I would have come to the door, you know.” He sounded amused.
She would carry out her duty to England. Later.
Now, she was going to kiss Jean Philippe Durand.
He appeared to share her need, for the moment the carriage wheels set in motion, his grip on her hand tightened and he hauled her across the space separating them. A gasp of startled laughter escaped her as she landed half on his lap, half on the seat beside him.
But her laughter faded a second later as his mouth fused to hers.
Yes, oh, yes. She’d longed for this since that afternoon at Montgrave.
She kissed him back, her lips parting willingly beneath the pressure from his. Her hands gripped his shoulders, clinging to him for balance amidst the sensations swarming her.
His tongue dipped in to explore. A little sound of need escaped her as she touched her own tongue to his, desperate to make him feel the same pleasure he offered her.
The kiss exploded. He plundered her mouth, stroking over and over, harder, faster. Bea matched him stroke for stroke, reveling in his taste, his touch, as he tipped her backward until she was half-lying on the seat, Philippe above her, their torsos pressed intimately.
Still she craved more of this heady sensation she’d read of in poems, yet lived so long without. She arched her back, seeking, and heard the Frenchman groan. He tore his lips from hers to trail kisses down her throat, her collarbone, until he reached the swell of her breasts above her gown. One hand slid up to cup her breast as he pressed a slow kiss to the top.
Oh…oh. Pleasure flooded her. Never had anyone kissed her like this, as though they could continue until all reason was abandoned.
Bea twisted, needing, and was rewarded as his thumb brushed over the crest of her breast, stroking as her nipple beaded and strained against the fabric of her gown. He tugged at the already low neckline, finally finding the hook that loosened the bodice enough to bare her chest. She shivered at the sudden sensation of exposure, but then his lips replaced his fingers, closing around her nipple, suckling. He used his mouth to tug, gently, and Bea cried out as pleasure streaked down her core and she arched further, pressing into his mouth for more.
His hips rocked against hers, startling her from her haze of pleasure as she registered Philippe’s arousal. She knew what came next—she’d been married. And while her friend Elizabeth had tried to convince her that intimate relations could be pleasurable, Bea, knowing only the experience of her own marriage, remained unconvinced.
But tonight those old memories did not matter. She and Philippe would be at the theater in minutes. There was little threat of their kisses, however impassioned, going too far.
Philippe lifted his head, sensing her hesitation. “Are you all right, chérie?”
Bea relaxed. “I’m fine,” she told him, and pulled his head down to begin the kiss anew.
Philippe grinned. Beatrice had not been entirely successful in her efforts to restore order to her hair and gown before they entered the theater. She looked delightful. Doubtless she’d be mortified if she’d witnessed the exchange of glances he’d shared with Lord Wilbourne upon their arrival.
Thankfully, the other man was too well-mannered to draw attention to her state of disarray, and Beatrice remained blissfully unaware.
The Wilbournes led them to their box, and Philippe settled Bea into one of the plush seats before taking the one next to her, the married couple on his other side.
Beatrice leaned across to address the Wilbournes, and Philippe stifled the urge to pull her into his lap once more.
“It is very kind of you to offer these seats to Monsieur Durand and I,” she said.
“Our pleasure, of course,” Alicia Wilbourne answered. “Theater is so much more enjoyable when one attends with friends.” She shot Philippe what he would have sworn was a conspiratorial glance, then lifted her opera glasses to innocently survey the audience.
“It is especially enjoyable,” Philippe joked, eyeing Robert Wilbourne, “when one is attempting to appease one’s guilt after badly fleecing the friend in question at cards.”
Robert laughed. At Bea’s inquisitive look, Philippe confided, “I am a terrible player.”
“Really?” Bea smiled, openly curious. “Most games are simply a matter of strategy, proper counting. And luck, of course.”
Philippe shrugged. “I lose focus. I would far rather analyze the features of my partner…” He let his gaze fall to her lips. He heard the slightest catch in her breath before he gave her a wink and continued, “Or wo
nder just what blend of dyes was used to color the silk of his waistcoat, than attempt to calculate the value of the cards he might be holding.”
“You are bad at cards. How fascinating—the august artiste is human after all.” She laughed, casting him a sideways glance—flirtatious, with a mere hint of her usual shyness.
He returned her smile, the rest of his body responding to her in ways he hoped were less obvious. “Who ever said I wasn’t human?”
Moments later, the curtains separated and the stage lamps lit as the orchestra launched into the overture. The players took their places, and the drama began to unfold. Beside him, Beatrice smiled.
He’d hoped to ease her nerves tonight by taking her to a purely social event where, unlike their previous encounters, she was not an object of scrutiny. Not that he’d been disappointed in their earlier meetings, but he sensed so much more potential in his chosen muse, if only she would open up to him. If the carriage ride to the theater—or her easy laughter at discovering that his talent did not extend to the card table—were any indication, the plan was already working.
Though he’d sensed a moment of hesitation in the carriage, Bea had not closed up, not shown the same bewildered trepidation as when they’d first kissed in the rose garden.
The theater served as a distraction for him as well, for he’d not yet sorted out the things he’d learned from Lord Owen. It was too great a betrayal to believe that his mother, his closest confidante, had kept from him a secret so great—especially knowing the desperation with which he’d sought to find Henri Gaudet. Why had she hidden the truth from him? Could she not trust her son? Neither of his parents had turned out to be the persons he thought them. They’d raised him well, yet he’d been thoroughly deceived. And where did that leave him now, if his own identity had been built on lies?
Philippe forced his mind back to the present. Now, it left him sitting beside a woman who was shy, perhaps tainted by a passionless marriage—but at least her past was not shrouded in painful deceit. And despite Bea’s reputation for respectability, they’d shared kisses that spoke volumes about her capacity for passionate desire. Once he managed to melt her reserve, she would not let him down.
His gaze roved the audience as the play continued—he was drawn, as always, to observing the full spectrum of humanity, not just that arranged for display on the stage. He rarely painted group scenes such as the one before him, preferring to focus on a single, unique subject. But it entertained him to think of how he would do it—how he would go about getting the colors just so, the contrast of light and shadow, the expressions of the audience—some entranced, others bored, and still others more engrossed by the company beside them than by the performance. It might make for an interesting painting, if he were so inclined.
The show was well attended tonight, though he recognized but a few faces. Lord Garrett, with whom he’d played cards, with a group in the box next to theirs. The Earl of Haverford, seated beside a buxom blonde that, given the rather obvious display of her charms, Philippe strongly suspected was not the earl’s wife.
Beatrice Pullington was far more lovely, more subtle…her charms a mystery waiting to be solved. He felt for her hand next to him, heard her soft intake of breath as his fingers wrapped around hers.
She didn’t pull away. He drew satisfaction from that, especially knowing the theater, while dim, was not so dark as to guarantee they would escape notice. He stroked her palm, noting the softness of her skin. His own fingers were calloused and often paint-flecked—a reminder that in spite of his great success, he worked for a living.
Below him, the main floor was filled with others who worked for a living—though perhaps not as comfortable of a living as that which Philippe enjoyed. Londoners from all walks of life who could spare a few shillings for general admission had crowded in for the popular show.
Wait. Philippe leaned forward.
Unless he was mistaken, the Wilbournes’ servant—the one he’d noticed at their card party—had chosen to attend the theater the same evening as the couple he served.
Assuming the man had no duties this evening, there was nothing untoward about his choice of entertainment. Yet his presence was discomforting. Philippe frowned. Why did he keep finding himself distracted by a mere footman, a man with whom he’d never directly exchanged words?
He leaned toward Robert Wilbourne to point out the man’s presence, then reconsidered. If the servant was skipping out on his duties, Philippe had no desire to tattle on him. Working men ought to look out for one another, he figured, whether they stood with the commoners or sat in well-appointed theater boxes as guests of the nobility.
Beside him, Bea had leaned forward as well. Her shawl had slipped back, offering him—if he tilted his head just so—an enticing view of the hollow between her breasts. Philippe relaxed. Much better. Why waste attention on the man below when he could put his mind to far better use by focusing on the woman inches away? What would it take, he wondered, for Lady Beatrice Pullington to relax to the point she would allow him…or better yet, beg him, to remove her shawl and gown entirely?
She seemed intent on the scene before them. She shifted, obscuring the view Philippe had been enjoying. With regret, he turned his focus back to the stage.
When intermission came, he stood, but not as quickly as Bea. She brushed past, forcing him to jump back to avoid being run over as she continued past the Wilbournes.
“Terribly sorry,” she called back as she disappeared in a swish of silk and sparkling silver, with no further explanation.
Philippe cocked his head. How very unlike her. Either Beatrice had urgent need of the retiring room, or the lady was up to something.
Beatrice barely registered the astonished looks on the faces of Philippe and the Wilbournes as she blew past them in her rush to follow the man she recognized from Vauxhall.
She’d spotted him during the second act and had been fidgeting ever since. It had to be the same man. He was already on his feet as well, heading for the lobby. She could beat him there, if she was quick—the main floor was crowded.
As for her friends, she’d have to come up with an excuse for her behavior when she returned. It couldn’t be helped now.
She didn’t dare confront the man, but by following him, perhaps she’d discover a clue to his identity. Though she would need more than that to satisfy the Foreign Secretary.
She’d racked her brain to remember anything the men at Vauxhall had said. Some kind of papers…a plan? She couldn’t be sure.
Was it too much to hope her questions would be answered tonight? Or did the spy simply enjoy theater? Love Laughs at Locksmiths was popular, true, but somehow, she hadn’t pegged the man she followed now as a patron of the arts.
She reached the lobby and paused in an alcove as people streamed in through the theater doors. Though her heart beat quickly, her mind felt strangely clear, focused on her mission. He’d been wearing brown and—there.
The man in question appeared, alone, just behind an elderly couple. The older duo moved slowly, and Bea could nearly feel the waves of frustration radiating from her prey as he finally spotted an opening and dodged around them. He strode toward the side of the lobby, moving quickly now, looking only ahead.
If he knew Bea was following him, he gave no indication.
She slipped through the crowd, weaving past several familiar faces but avoiding eye contact. If she paused to chat, she would lose him.
They reached the edge of the lobby, the spy a few yards farther to the back of the building than she. He threw a quick glance around, then pulled the knob of a door Bea had never before noticed and disappeared inside. She hesitated.
No. She couldn’t hesitate. She ran forward and caught the door with the toe of her slipper just before it closed.
Inside, the corridor was dark. Had anyone seen her enter?
Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord. The Foreign Secretary had reassured her she’d be doing nothing more than paying closer attention to people with whom she
already associated. So what was she doing sneaking into the back corridor of the theater, following a man she’d never met?
But if the real objective was to discover the spies’ plan, this was an opportunity not to be missed.
The man turned a corner, following the corridor to a back entrance near the dressing rooms used by the players. Bea hung back at the corner. There was no other place to hide.
She heard the faint creak of a door opening, then the soft snick as it closed.
Then a woman’s voice. “Have the weeds grown tall?” The question was asked in French.
Bea’s heart was in her throat—could it be the woman who’d been missing that night at Vauxhall? The one whose note she’d received?
“Nay, the garden is well-groomed,” the man replied. “Bonsoir.”
“Evening,” the woman’s voice replied, this time in English.
Bea dared a quick peek around the corner, then pulled back. Rose Kettridge. The actress. Moments before, she’d been watching this woman on stage.
Bea struggled to remember the night of the salon. Had Miss Kettridge been present? Actresses were not commonly invited to ton events, but a salon honoring an artist was different—particularly considering Monsieur Durand’s broad appeal to the full spectrum of Society. But would she have come as someone’s guest? Or at the direct invitation of the Wilbournes? And if she was directly invited, did that implicate Bea’s friends?
“We move forward, then?” Miss Kettridge asked.
“Yes,” the man told her. “Msr. Denis has given us one more chance. We must not be careless again.”
“No. I shudder to think of the consequences. Your progress?”
“My placement is not as advantageous as yours.” He sounded frustrated. “Rarely can I abandon the duties of my position without drawing the notice of the butler, or the nobles themselves. I may pass messages, but it is to you we must turn if we are to accomplish this.”
“Oh?” Her voice held a calculating note. “It seems you are fortunate to have me.”