Nothing But Deception

by Allegra Gray

  Now, the trick was figuring out how to maintain the watch once the trunks were delivered. Rumor had it the Montgrave butler ran a tight household—there was little hope Jasper could loiter for long without attracting his notice. But Jasper’s mind, while not suited to long stints of steady employment, was suited to creative solutions. If Lady Pullington was spying for the British, she would be in contact with the Foreign Office. And when that contact came, he would be waiting.

  Richard waited as the ship docked. He sat on a bench, studying one of the Paris papers—a day old, it told him little he did not already know. Dockworkers, merchants, and laborers went about their business. No one paid him any attention.

  He’d taken to spending most of his days in Calais. The port city allowed for faster communication with his men in England. Besides, Paris was—politically, at least—a mess. He’d had no messages for several days. That worried him. His goals depended on his agents in England.

  Waiting, he allowed himself a moment to dream…soon, he would establish himself as the most loyal of Napoleon’s followers. The Emperor had met with success so far, but the greatest danger—the armies of the coalition—lay ahead. Britain, Austria, Prussia, Russia…all were marching toward France. Napoleon would need help. Other men had rejoined his cause—but while the foot soldiers joined him blindly, men like Richard usually kept one eye turned toward a route of escape.

  Fouché was one of the worst—he had the ear of the Emperor, and that burned. How could Napoleon have offered him the position of police minister? Everyone knew Fouché had conspired against his ruler when Napoleon had been forced to abdicate last spring—and was in all probability conspiring against him now.

  Richard grimaced. Self-preservation, he understood—within limits. He’d stayed alive through France’s turbulent changes in regime by carefully balancing the desire to be valued by those in power with the need to appear insignificant.

  Well, he was tired of being insignificant. If he could deliver the British plans for the invasion, and if that was enough to give the Emperor the edge he needed—still a considerable risk, Richard knew—he would be rewarded far beyond Fouché, far beyond any measure of greatness he’d previously known.

  André sidled up behind him. “The Channel crossing grows tiresome.”

  “Undoubtedly. Though you are well compensated for your time.” Only one thing guaranteed the loyalty of men like André Denis. Gold. And Richard had staked a significant portion of his personal coffers on this endeavor. “The news?”

  “Lady Pullington—the British informant—and your son were seen at the theater together in London, in the presence of Lord and Lady Wilbourne. Unfortunately, Philippe and the lady have since removed to a country estate owned by the Duke of Beaufort. Apparently, your son intends to use the grounds as a setting for painting his English fancy.”

  Richard resisted the urge to roll his eyes. In spite of the fact that he’d ordered Solange to stop painting after they’d married and turn her efforts to more useful pursuits, like becoming a proper hostess for a man of his station, he hadn’t been able to stop Philippe from taking up the oils and brush. And now the boy had picked himself a pretty little spy to paint. He probably had no idea.

  Richard eyed André. “And?”

  “I must ask, monsieur…Whose side is your son on?”

  “Philippe?” Richard scoffed. “The boy has no head for politics.”

  “Do you think it coincidence that he asked to paint a woman who appears to be a British informant? And who, by all reports, is now becoming remarkably close to your son?”

  “The circumstances are odd,” Richard admitted. “Though, knowing Philippe, I am inclined to believe it is mere coincidence. Is there anything to suggest Lady Pullington engaged in political activities prior to intercepting our missive?”

  André shook his head. “She appears to have led a quiet, proper life. As have many of our own best agents,” he added pointedly.

  Richard rubbed the back of his neck. “Continue watching them. I don’t care if he’s painting her, or if he’s sleeping with her—but I do care if he’s talking with her. I want to know what they each know, and where their motives lie.”

  “The problem is, we cannot shadow them at the country estate—not closely, anyway.”

  “Get someone on the staff.” The solution was so obvious, Richard shouldn’t have had to suggest it.

  Denis shook his head. “Impossible. The Duke of Beaufort is extremely selective in hiring servants. We could hardly get them to speak to us—beyond the phrase ‘not hiring,’ that is.”

  “Bribery?”

  “Again, no. He pays them too well. What’s more, they know it, and each and every one of his servants fears the duke’s wrath should they abuse their position.”

  “Merde.”

  The burly spy nodded, agreeing with the sentiment as he took a long pull on his ever-present cigar. “Further effort on that front would arouse suspicion. We have set one of our men in the nearest village. He can monitor any comings and goings from the estate.”

  “In the meantime, our primary objective remains the same,” Richard reminded him. “Time runs short. We must deliver the plans.”

  It could already be too late. Forces were amassing on the Continent, and information was only useful if one had time to react to it. Bonaparte had survived the battles at Ferrara, and then at Tolentino—but those were child’s play compared to what awaited.

  “I want to know where the coalition is gathering, and how soon they will be ready. Most importantly, seek any document, any overheard whisper, that references tactics,” Richard instructed.

  “Of course, monsieur.”

  “Bonaparte will have informants monitoring the proceedings of the Congress of Vienna, but it’s Wellington’s plans I want. The other armies must march across vast distances to reach France. Their intentions will be known long before they reach us. Not so with the Brits. If this confrontation turns into a drawn-out battle, with one army slogging away at the other, Napoleon Bonaparte will eventually, inevitably, be defeated. But the Emperor has a known flair for tactics…especially when his enemy’s intentions are scripted before him.”

  André’s lip had flattened into a thin line during the course of his employer’s lecture. Richard bit back the remainder of his impassioned rant. “All right. Just tell me. Where do we stand?”

  “Close, monsieur. Very close. There is an officer on the planning council who loses his reason when distracted by Miss Kettridge’s considerable charms. And he is not immune to mixing business with pleasure. She has access to his offices.”

  “Good. Continue working that angle, and any other that may prove fruitful.”

  Having received orders, André adjusted the brim of his hat in a gesture that implied he was getting ready to leave.

  Richard stopped him. “One more question. How much risk do we assume by leaving my son to dally in the forest with the English spy?”

  André cocked his head, a gleam in his eye. “Very little—to our primary goal, that is. Judging from the behavior we observed, I think the only risk you need concern yourself with is how soon you will have bastard grandchildren running about England.”

  Richard shot him a dark look.

  “Unless he marries the chit, of course,” the burly agent quickly amended.

  “Hardly better.” Then he’d have a defector in the family. The English were enemies…surely Philippe, for all his political naivety, knew that much.

  “A passing fancy, most like.” André waved his cigar as though Philippe could just as easily be dismissed, studied the glowing tip a moment, then clamped the unlit end back into its usual spot. “Although,” he mused, “have you considered that this, ah, relationship between your son and the Englishwoman, not to mention his relationship with the Wilbourne couple, may prove…useful?”

  Shrewd eyes studied Richard for a reaction, but Richard allowed no expression to reflect on his features.

  André nodded. “Just a th
ought.”

  Lily hurried along the path into the woods. How much time had passed since her cousin had left her in the library? Enough that Monsieur Durand and Lady Pullington had surely noticed her absence. She prayed they weren’t angry.

  She’d re-stoppered the brandy in the duke’s cabinet—oh, so very hard to do, then wandered down to the kitchen.

  “Did your interview go well, mum?” Betsy, one of the kitchen maids, had asked.

  “It did. I shall be staying on.” Her hands had trembled as she’d asked, “Is it possible to trouble you for a glass of wine? Just something to settle my nerves.”

  Betsy had looked sympathetic. “I was terrified when I firs’ came on here—the duke holds ’is standards high, but you’ll get used to it. I haven’t access to the wine cellar, but let me ask Cook for you, mum, an’ I’m sure he’ll see to it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Two glasses of fine red wine later, the trembling had stopped, and Lily had almost forgotten the alluring scent of fine brandy. She’d also almost forgotten her position as companion—which was what had her hurrying toward the abandoned rose garden now.

  Ah, here it was. Lily edged up to the clearing. The spot was secluded, with a wild sort of prettiness. The perfect place for a tryst. But the couple seemed to have no such intentions. Lady Pullington stood at a stone basin, holding very still, while Monsieur Durand sat some distance away, absorbed in sketching her. Both were doing exactly what they’d come to Montgrave for—offering no hint of any other motives, in spite of the romantic setting.

  Lady Pullington spotted her and flashed a quick smile. If she wondered where Lily had been all this time, she gave no indication.

  Lily laughed to herself and thought longingly of the duke’s brandy. Chaperoning these two, it appeared, would be as easy as helping herself to the estate’s fine libations.

  Had someone informed Bea a month ago that she’d be secluded on a vast estate with a world-renowned artist and a flighty woman she’d never before met as her only companions, Bea would have dismissed the idea as absurd. Yet here they were. An odd lot, perhaps, but with a common purpose.

  Before she could devote herself to that purpose, though, there was one matter she had to see to: the Foreign Secretary expected a report. Nearly a week had passed since their meeting, and he’d been very clear about the urgency of the matter.

  Thanks to Elizabeth and Charity’s early arrival the previous morn, she’d had to postpone the missive. She’d managed to grab the half-finished effort just before leaving for Montgrave, though with the gown Elizabeth had insisted she change into—a wispy frock that was most definitely not a traveling costume—she’d been challenged for a place to stow it. She’d managed to slip it between her chemise and stays, then found herself constantly patting the area to reassure herself of the paper’s presence. Finally, they’d reached Montgrave and she’d had a moment to tuck it away in a safer place.

  The remainder of their arrival day had been too full to pry a moment alone. But Elizabeth, seeing that Bea was satisfied with Lily as a companion, had claimed she missed Alex dreadfully, and decided to return to London the following morn.

  After seeing off her emotional friend, Bea returned to the lovely suite the staff had readied for her. She could delay no longer. She pulled out the now-rumpled letter to Viscount Castlereagh, picked up a pen, then stopped.

  Something wasn’t right. She crumpled the letter and tossed it into the fire.

  She’d originally planned to entrust the note to a member of her own staff, but now it would have to be delivered via an unfamiliar messenger. If this note were read by the wrong eyes, she didn’t like to think of the consequences.

  After careful consideration, she composed a new missive in Italian, figuring the foreign language, less common in England than French, offered a layer of caution. Even if the messenger broke the seal, it was unlikely he would read Italian well enough to grasp the significance of what she wrote. Lord Castlereagh, she judged, would have no such difficulty.

  In the letter, she offered up the actress, Miss Kettridge, by name, and warned of her intentions toward an unnamed but apparently attractive major. Bea hoped the description would mean something more to the Foreign Secretary. As for the male spy, her argument with Philippe had confirmed the man was a servant of Lord and Lady Wilbourne. She relayed this as well, then closed the letter with:

  My current commitment to sitting for Monsieur Durand requires my presence at Montgrave. Thus, I am unable to make further observations of anyone, save, of course, Monsieur Durand, though nothing leads me to believe he is involved. Should I happen upon any further information through unexpected means, I will not hesitate to report it to you.

  There. She sealed the letter with wax and slowly let out a breath. She’d done her duty to England. The only piece she’d left out was Philippe’s role at the theater that night. Perhaps the omission was self-serving, but she couldn’t bear to implicate him in the same fashion as those she knew were involved. Her loyalty to England was strong, but not strong enough to ignore the inexorable tug of loyalty to the man she was beginning to suspect held her heart.

  The hours spent traveling to and from Montgrave, the hours in the rose garden, the hours at meals and later in the evenings, when they’d laughed over poetry or stories of each other’s childhoods…more and more she was drawn to him. How could she spy against him?

  She’d tossed and turned for hours last night, torn between her growing connection with Philippe, and the Foreign Secretary’s identification of him as a person of interest. True, she could not account for Philippe’s every waking moment, but Bea had spent more time with him than anyone, and there was just nothing, beyond his nationality, to link him to the spies.

  At the theater she’d been suspicious, but both times he’d confronted her about the incident, his only concern was jealousy, that she might be meeting another man. No hint of concern she could have been in danger, or endangering some ulterior motive of his own. There had been those days when he’d traveled to Kent, but he’d told her the brief journey had been to pay a call on an old friend of his mother’s, a request she’d made shortly before her death. Why shouldn’t she believe him?

  If she was wrong, if Philippe was working for Napoleon’s men, she herself could be in great danger if she betrayed him. But Bea couldn’t manage to summon any fear over that possibility—because truth be told, she’d never seen Philippe take an interest in anything beyond art, the theater, and her.

  She refused to harbor further doubts. Doing so would only destroy her chance at romance with the one man who’d ever shown signs he might understand her, understand their shared need to observe the world and create their own interpretations, whether with words or paints.

  It was a risk—and Bea was not by nature a risk-taker. But for once, she had to follow her heart and pray it did not lead her astray.

  As for the letter, she needed someone to carry it to Lord Castlereagh. Unfortunately, as Elizabeth had already left, Bea could not simply send the note with her. She trusted her friend implicitly—though, at least this way, Bea would not have to answer her friend’s questions about why she was delivering a note addressed to one of the prominent political figures in Britain.

  Instead, Bea carried the note to Montgrave’s butler, and asked that he recommend a reliable messenger. One Mr. Reilly, an earnest looking footman, was brought forward.

  “You know the route?” she asked him.

  “Yes, my lady. I have run messages from Montgrave to London before.”

  “It is of considerable importance to me this message be delivered promptly,” Bea said, tempted to use stronger words, but stayed by the fear of tipping off the servant. If anyone had a trustworthy staff, it was the Duke of Beaufort—but then again, one could never be too sure.

  “I shall make no delay,” Reilly promised her.

  “Good.” She handed him the letter, trying not to let her fingers tremble. “Here is some coin for your trouble, and to cov
er any expenses you incur.” She handed him a small pouch.

  “With your permission, my lady, I can leave immediately.”

  “Granted.” Bea breathed a sigh of relief as Reilly bowed and exited. Moments later, she saw him crossing the grounds, heading toward the stables. Good.

  She hoped the Foreign Secretary was satisfied. For now, the matter was out of her hands.

  Jasper tipped back his mug of ale to swallow the last drops.

  “More?” the owner of The Cock and Crown asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Traveling far today?”

  He shook his head again. “Waitin’ on word from the boss,” he said. It was the intentionally vague excuse he’d invented to justify lingering for a day or two. Delivering the trunks to Montgrave had been easy, but afterward he’d retreated to the nearby village, where the tavern keeper turned out to be a talkative sort.

  “What sort of business are you in, mister?”

  “Trade,” Jasper replied noncommittally.

  The other man nodded, picked up a rag, and began polishing mugs.

  Jasper stood and stretched, tossed a few coins onto the table, and went out into the yard.

  Damn it. How was he to keep the watch now? Sneak into the woods and spy on the site Monsieur Durand had chosen for his next painting?

  Jasper spat. He’d already done that yesterday, while en route to delivering the trunks, but from what he’d observed, the lanky artist and his English chit were more interested in getting to know one another than in extracting secrets of national consequence.

  Then, earlier this morning, a carriage emblazoned with the Beaufort crest of arms had passed him by on the road. The duchess, he guessed, returning to London. Though her husband the duke had accompanied Lady Pullington to the British Foreign Secretary’s office, he had no evidence to suggest the lady spy was communicating through Lady Bainbridge. Jasper had chosen not to interrupt the duchess’s travels. He hoped he hadn’t missed his chance. She was too prominent a figure in London Society to be accosted on a whim.