Nothing But Deception

by Allegra Gray

  Philippe grew warier. He had no political associations—only his stepfather did. “I don’t understand.”

  “We have evidence that someone in London has been attempting to pass information to certain French parties. I cannot divulge details here, but your stay in England, as well as your extensive connections, have not gone unnoticed.”

  “Ha! Certes, you jest. I am an artiste,” Philippe declared, one hand to his heart. He could hear his accent grow thick, but his indignation was too great for proper English. “I have no interest in government affairs. I have already spoken of this matter with your Foreign Secretary.”

  “Ah. You know of what I speak. You are involved,” the constable said.

  Philippe stopped short. It was true. He was. But for entirely different reasons—he’d been drawn in by the mysterious Englishwoman who’d captured his imagination and passion, and chivalry compelled him to aid her missing friend.

  He pulled the constable farther into the corner, speaking in a lower tone now, though anger simmered in each word. “Do you think me a fool? My only involvement was to help rescue one of Britain’s own. A lady, no less. If I were a spy, as you suggest, why would I do such a thing?”

  The man gave an apologetic shrug. “It is not for me to say. If you will come with me, you will be taken before the magistrate, who I am sure will explain matters more fully. You will have the opportunity to make your case to him.”

  “And if I choose not to go with you?”

  The constable looked him dead in the eye. “Monsieur, I would advise against that. It is not really an option.”

  Chapter 19

  “Lord Owen?” Bea greeted her unexpected visitor.

  The older man rose as she entered the salon. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady. You are every bit as lovely as Philippe described you.”

  She hadn’t heard from Philippe in three days. She tried not to let the desperation show as she asked, “And how fares Monsieur Durand?”

  Lord Owen shifted his cane. Bea gestured for him to sit, but he shook his head. “That is why I am here. Unfortunately, I do not bear good news. Philippe has been arrested.”

  “What?” Bea’s legs wobbled and she quickly sat on the nearest chair, a stiff, hard-backed piece that matched her décor but which no one ever actually sat in. “What happened?”

  Lord Owen followed her lead, easing back down to his seat. “As I understand, he was playing cards with Lords Stockton and Garrett, when a constable arrived with a warrant. Mindful of causing a scene, Philippe went with him to the magistrate’s office, believing this was a misunderstanding about some, ah, adventure he shared with you, and which could be cleared up with a word from Lord Castlereagh.”

  Henry Owen’s raised eyebrows plainly indicated his curiosity, but Bea offered no answers.

  “At any rate, Lord Stockton knew Philippe was my guest, and hastened to inform me of the incident. I made immediate inquiries, though it took some hours to find him. Philippe’s initial hope, that the misunderstanding could be easily rectified, did not come to fruition. In fact, the situation is quite worrisome. The papers have not yet gotten hold of this tidbit, but I fear the reprieve is temporary, Lady Pullington, and I wanted you to hear the news from me first.”

  He passed a hand across his forehead as though weary. No doubt he was, if all that had happened overnight. Bea wrapped her arms around her waist, struggling to take it in. Just days ago Philippe had been questioned and cleared by the British Foreign Secretary. What could have changed?

  “What has he been charged with?”

  “Formal charges have not yet been filed. But from what I gather…there is no easy way to say this. Espionage.”

  Bea nodded. It was what she’d expected.

  The old man observed her reaction with keen eyes. “You do not act surprised,” he mused, “which leads me to wonder what sort of adventures the two of you have been having outside the studio.”

  “Philippe Durand is not a spy.”

  “I did not think so either.”

  “I know so,” Bea declared.

  “Really?” Lord Owen leaned back, finding a more comfortable position. “And how is that?”

  “Because,” Bea told him, sensing she could trust him with her secret, “I am the spy who was assigned to determine whether or not he was a spy.”

  “I see.” A smile touched her guest’s lips. “Beautiful and fascinating. No wonder he is captivated.”

  Whether or not Philippe was still captivated was a tricky subject—one Bea preferred not to address at the moment. “Where is he being held?”

  “At my house. That is the one thing I have been able to do for him. He is under house arrest, with guards.”

  “Surely that is uncomfortable for you.”

  Lord Owen shrugged, then gave her a smile that hinted at the mischief of youth. “Why, I haven’t had such excitement in years.”

  “Can he receive visitors?”

  “For a short duration, and with guards present. No items, particularly weapons or anything bearing writing that might constitute a message, may be exchanged.”

  Bea pressed her lips together. “Do you have any idea why they suspect him?”

  “No, Lady Pullington. I am sorry. No one I spoke with would divulge that information—they would advise me only that they believed I was making an unwise choice in offering up my home to hold him.”

  Bea stood. “Lord Owen, I am infinitely grateful to you for coming to me with these tidings. Now I am afraid I must excuse myself. I need to pay a visit to our Foreign Secretary.”

  Bea sensed a change before she even saw Viscount Castlereagh. He was an understandably busy man, but in the past, she’d been treated as a priority—he’d cut meetings short in order to confer with her and Alex Bainbridge.

  This time, she waited for hours.

  Her inquiries to his assistant were met with thinly-veiled impatience. The Foreign Secretary was a busy man. Many urgent meetings. And she, after all, had not scheduled an appointment in advance. Well, how could she have? Bea tapped her foot in frustration.

  Finally, she was ushered into the Foreign Secretary’s office. As she entered, Castlereagh looked up from the document he’d been reviewing, and announced, “I know why you have come, Lady Pullington, but I am afraid I cannot help you.”

  The breath whooshed from Bea’s chest and the speech she’d had hours to perfect vanished from her mind. “Why?”

  “You wish me to release Jean Philippe Durand. I cannot. New evidence has come to light that throws into doubt our earlier assessment that Monsieur Durand is uninvolved in the plot to steal British military plans to aid the cause of Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  Bea frowned. “What new evidence?”

  He folded his arms. “It is odd, isn’t it, that Monsieur Durand’s decision to travel to England coincided so neatly with Napoleon’s return?”

  “Perhaps.” Bea wasn’t giving an inch. “What new evidence?” she repeated.

  “And it is known that Monsieur Durand’s father, Msr. Richard Durand, served with Bonaparte in the French army, and later worked as an advisor to him.”

  He was evading her. That wasn’t new evidence. Nor was it relevant. “Philippe does not share the political ambition of his father.”

  Viscount Castlereagh raised a brow. “How do you know this? Did you, in the course of sitting for a portrait, learn his character so thoroughly as to testify to it with certainty?”

  Bea swallowed hard at his biting tone.

  “Lady Pullington, I am sorry. But I cannot trust you,” Castlereagh told her. “Your plea speaks of emotion, not of reason. I am not deaf to the gossip of the ton, particularly when that gossip includes speculation about one of my informants and the subject I asked her to observe. Though,” he admitted, “it is not uncommon to employ seduction in this line of work—indeed, an intimate acquaintance will often prove a fruitful source of information.”

  “I didn’t—” Bea protested.

  H
e held up a hand, cutting off her reply. “And that is what troubles me. The lines of professional and personal interest have been blurred. Did you seduce him for the purposes of learning his secrets? Or did you fall prey to his charms, perhaps risking not only your heart, but our nation’s secrets?”

  At her stunned silence, he continued. “You see? I cannot say with absolute certainty where your loyalties lie. And therefore, I cannot help you. The matter is too grave to take further risks.”

  Somehow, Bea managed to stay upright, to keep her voice steady, when she felt more like collapsing into a shaky, sobbing heap. “Wait. If it is known that the elder Durand acted as an advisor to Bonaparte, why do you suspect Philippe, and not him?”

  “An astute question, but our inquiries show that with the Emperor’s downfall, Monsieur Durand denounced Bonaparte. He had ambitions of election to the French Chamber of Deputies under Louis XVIII’s new constitution. Supporting Bonaparte’s mad attempt to return would surely not serve those interests, and would paint Durand as fickle, if not traitorous.”

  “But—”

  “Lady Pullington, I realize you showed an unusual prescience in deciphering the original message you came across, and in bringing this situation to the British government’s attention, but matters are out of your hands now. I no longer require, or request, your services.”

  It took all her effort to keep her spine straight. “Viscount Castlereagh. I see that, circumstances as they are, my word alone is of no value. If, however, I can bring you proof, or evidence more convincing than my own pleas, will you reconsider?”

  He regarded her gravely. “Have you such proof?”

  “No—not yet,” Bea admitted. “But if you would tell me what evidence has come to light against him, I will better understand how to counter it. Or,” she swallowed but met his eyes with her chin up, “if the evidence is such that any effort on my part is but a fool’s errand, I will understand that as well.”

  He pressed his lips together. “I will tell you this. The two spies we captured the night your Miss Medford was recovered? We have had ample time to interrogate them, and have learned little, but for one thing: when asked for whom they worked, both provided the same name. Monsieur Jean Philippe Durand.”

  Her government had let her down. Bea prayed her friends would not do the same.

  Only Elizabeth was home when Bea arrived at the Bainbridge town house—a place she’d once considered almost a second home but she was now beginning to associate with dire situations.

  “They’ve taken Philippe,” Bea wailed, as the composure she’d maintained with the Foreign Secretary deserted her.

  “What?” Her friend’s green eyes registered alarm. “Kidnapped?”

  “No. Worse. Arrested.”

  Elizabeth stood and came to Bea, gently leading her to the sofa. “All right, let’s try to make sense of this. Arrested is bad, but surely not worse than kidnapping. It is most likely a mistake.”

  Bea shook her head in misery. “It’s not a mistake.” She explained what had happened at the Foreign Secretary’s office. “And,” she finished, “he’s angry with me. Until Lord Owen showed up this morning, I hadn’t heard from Philippe in three days.”

  “Oh, dear.” Elizabeth pressed the tips of her fingers to her lips. “Why?”

  Why was he so upset? “He, uh, thinks I’ve been holding back, hiding things from him. Which, I suppose, is true. I thought we’d settled the matter, but…” The Frenchman’s behavior defied explanation.

  Elizabeth considered this in silence a long while before saying gently, “Perhaps it’s best to simply let him go. You confided to me, not so very long ago, that you hoped to remarry. There’s still hope for that, I think, if you put this behind you and look to gentlemen who are, ah, a bit more settled.”

  Bea took a deep, gulping breath. “E., I can’t let him go. I love him.” It came out as a tortured whisper rather than the strong declaration she’d intended, but it was out.

  Elizabeth paused, watching her with a searching gaze, and then her face softened. “Oh. Oh, I see.” She clasped Bea’s hand with one of hers, her fingers warm against Bea’s icy ones. She leaned back against the sofa, eyes raised to the ceiling as she absentmindedly rubbed the growing mound of her belly. “You and I, we chose rather difficult paths in finding love, didn’t we?”

  “What am I to do?”

  Elizabeth squeezed her hand. “You’re my dearest friend, and I’ll never forget that you were there for me when no one else was. Bea, I trust you. If Philippe Durand is the man you love, then he must be worthy of that love. I take back my earlier words. You cannot let him go. You must do everything in your power to clear his name.”

  Bea gave a shaky laugh. “Now you sound more like my matchmaking friend.”

  Elizabeth clapped a hand to her forehead. “Oh, dear. I’d quite forgotten.” She peered anxiously at Bea. “I very nearly thrust the two of you together, didn’t I? Have I made a terrible mess of things, then?”

  “Don’t you blame yourself for a minute. Thrusting two people together does not guarantee they will fall in love. I did that entirely on my own.”

  “True enough.” Elizabeth gave her an encouraging smile.

  Bea swallowed hard, struggling to summon some of Elizabeth’s plucky attitude for herself. If she fought for Philippe’s release, it would be akin to publicly admitting her affair with a suspected spy—rendering her unmarriageable to anyone but Philippe. She’d be sacrificing her reputation, the very foundation which had given her comfort these past few years. And for what? In their last conversation, when she’d offered him the poem that declared her love, his withdrawal had been so obvious, she’d felt it like a physical tug.

  Even if she could fathom a way to help him from this quagmire, there was every chance that, given his freedom, Jean Philippe Durand would return to France and forget she’d ever existed.

  Elizabeth waited, wearing a hopeful expression.

  Bea sighed. She wasn’t opposed to the occasional gamble—she even enjoyed a good game of cards. But never had she played for stakes so high.

  “You see?” Lady Russell wailed. “I predicted no good could come of this, and look what has happened. Bea, how could you?”

  Alex shot her a quelling look, for which Bea was infinitely grateful. Thankfully, the rest of the room’s occupants seemed unfazed by Bea’s mother’s hysterics. Or perhaps they were simply used to them, Bea thought as she watched her father take a swallow of brandy and pat the pocket where she knew he kept his pipe.

  With Elizabeth offering staunch moral support, as well as the use of her home, Bea had summoned the small circle of people closest to Philippe for an emergency council. The Wilbournes had departed for the country after the scandal of discovering a spy amongst their servants, and Charity was off at a picnic with a group of companions, limiting Philippe’s supporters to herself, Alex and Elizabeth, and Lord Owen. As an afterthought, Bea had included her parents, knowing they were likely to hear of this anyway. Better to get the story straight from her than after it had passed through eight iterations of the gossip mill. Though, given her mother’s tendency to overreact, Bea reflected, perhaps she should have limited the invitation to her father.

  To be fair, Bea’s parents had the least understanding of anyone in the room as to the serious nature of the situation. Alex had offered a brief summary of events, downplaying Bea and Charity’s roles. Bea had a feeling he would have left them out entirely, had it not been relevant to point out Philippe’s role in finding Charity and getting her home safe.

  “I don’t see why this must concern you any longer, though, Beatrice,” Lady Russell argued. “Of course, it’s a shame your portrait won’t be completed, but if you wash your hands of the matter now, tell everyone you’d grown suspicious, that you’d decided to cancel the painting yourself. Yes, that would work—it would explain your earlier-than-expected return from Montgrave, and help dispel the rumors about your, ah”—her glance flitted about the room—“well, r
umors that Monsieur Durand might have grown overly affectionate.”

  “Mother, I cannot do that. It is untrue, and what is more, I believe Philippe innocent of these accusations. How could I live with myself, knowing I consigned him to such a fate when he, in contrast, came striding in to offer help—in the face of danger, I might add—when Charity Medford needed it.”

  Lord Owen cleared his throat. “I realize I am a near stranger in this room, but if I may speak?” When no one objected, he continued, “I cannot claim to have known Philippe for long, but I did know his mother—and the man she married. Richard Durand’s political ambition knows no bounds. But to my knowledge, neither Solange nor her son were ever involved in such matters. Solange’s soul was driven by her art, and my brief acquaintance with Philippe gives me every reason to think he is the same.”

  “Yes, exactly,” Bea concurred. “Political matters hold no interest for him—unless they bring danger to his friends.”

  “The fact remains, he stands accused,” Lord Russell pointed out. “And, my daughter, while I commend your desire to see justice served, I’ve no wish to see your name dragged through the mud any longer.”

  “Accused, but what proof is there of his guilt?” Bea argued, ignoring the last part of her father’s speech.

  “That remains to be seen,” Alex said.

  “Consider the situation fully,” Bea begged of them. “The spies stole the plans Wednesday night, correct? From their perspective, they’d succeeded in their goal. If Philippe were involved, if they worked for him, then why would he stay around all the following day, helping us?

  “When the duke and I left Montgrave to go after Charity, we left Philippe behind, completely free. If he were a spy, he’d just been handed the perfect opportunity to rejoin his network and flee the country—exactly as the others were attempting to do. But instead, he followed us, offered his help to rescue Charity from the very enemies he is supposedly in league with—aware he’d be on display, his whereabouts known to our government? It simply makes no sense.”