She understood the terrible implications and her respect for him grew. She glanced again at the little scars on the backs of his fingers. He had been tortured in France.
“How do you know of Toussaint?” he asked.
“Oh, not from Charlotte. I assure you. We discovered him quite by accident. One of the pigeons he uses to communicate with the abbey fell beneath an archer’s arrow. The archer, a minor functionary for the secretary for Alien Affairs, thought the message the bird carried odd enough to bring to his employer’s attention and thus,” she shrugged modestly, “to ours. Toussaint probably doesn’t even know we have him identified.”
“But he knows of Charlotte’s role in your network and sanctions it?” Dand asked, watching her intently.
“Yes. If not directly, by tacit consent. Charlotte’s role has grown beyond what I imagine you believe it to be. She has become a vital part of a network. My network. I believe that had Toussaint forbidden her to act on England’s behalf, she would have done so anyway. Perhaps you ought to take a lesson from him?”
“Ah. But then, Toussaint’s goals and mine may not be the same,” he said.
“I thought as an agent of Rome your goal was to restore the monarchy to France and with it the Roman Church with all its former rights and privileges?” she said with weighty significance. A little flicker of appreciation danced in his warm brown eyes. He really was a most attractive man.
“That is part of it. There is…a personal element, too.” He clasped the arms of the chair and pushed himself to his feet. She tilted her head back to maintain eye contact with him. “Can you pull this off, do you think?”
She nodded.
“How certain are you?”
She frowned, irritably. “I cannot guarantee anything, but I am confident of every aspect of the plan.”
“Tell me of St. Lyon.”
She could not think of any reason to refuse. “St. Lyon is a collector. Of art. Of wine. Of old books. And most especially, of women.
“He acquires lovers like some men acquire snuffboxes. The harder they are to add to his collection, the more he must have them. No particular woman incites his passion; it is the chase, the challenge of taking her from another man’s protection that excites him. He must have what is denied him.”
“And you do not think a man of such appetites poses a threat to Miss Nash?”
“Charlotte stands in no danger from the comte.” She did not add that had circumstances been different, this might not have been so.
She looked up. Too late, she realized Dand had read her concern in her face. She saw the suspicion on his face and hurried to reassure him. “The comte would never risk society’s censure by pursuing a well-connected virgin. He values his position amongst the ton far too much to endanger it by indulging in an infatuation. If he was to develop one.”
His eyes narrowed. He moved away from where she reclined against the silk pillows. “Besides,” she added in a throaty purr, “the comte’s attentions have already been fixed elsewhere. As you already know, he has invited me to be his ‘special’ guest at the castle.”
He studied her with an insultingly clinical eye. She swung her legs over the edge of the chaise and rose, going to him and laying her hand on his chest imploringly. “It is imperative that this letter the comte has stolen never see the light of day. We have credible information that the contents could incriminate several extremely high ranking officials in a foreign government currently pondering whether to aid or hinder England’s efforts—officials who are extremely sympathetic to our cause. This letter could destroy them.”
“You really are amazingly indiscreet,” he murmured.
She gazed up at him, trying to fathom his thoughts. If he failed to win her trust, he would be dead before he reached the front door. Or would her footman, Finn? She would rather not find out. “Do you understand?”
“Of course, I understand,” he said, suddenly impatient. “Which is why I have to return to France to reassure those who sent that letter before fear sends them fleeing the country and the game is up.”
So that is who he was! The agent best known as Rousse, though he had a myriad of identities and aliases, was the architect of some of the most delicate secret alliances in Europe. Ginny stared at him with new respect.
“Which is why, before I go, I need your promise that Miss Nash’s involvement in this plot ends now. Here.” His eyes narrowed. “You would not consider dragging her along in your wake to provide—how did you put it?—a divertissement while you search?”
Actually, Ginny had considered such a ploy but decided that it would be odd for her to bring along a rival. The comte was no fool. And she could not afford to provoke even the slightest suspicion.
“Believe me, Mr. Ross, I have no desire to put Charlotte in harm’s way—”
He moved so quickly she didn’t have time to dive for the pistol she’d left beneath the pillow. One minute he was standing relaxed a few feet away, the next he loomed over her, his hand about her throat. Tight. She grabbed his wrist, struggling unsuccessfully to free herself. His thumb pressed deeply at a point beneath her jaw. Little sparks of light rimmed her vision.
“I see I have failed to make my point,” he said. “Let me clarify my position. I do not care what you desire to do. I have done many things I have not particularly desired to do. I only care about how you act. I do not want Miss Nash endangered. Do you understand?” His voice was perfectly calm, perfectly cold.
She let her hands drop, nodding as she stared into his eyes. Then, as abruptly as he’d taken hold of her, she was free. He stepped back and inclined his head in a bow that, while it did not mock her, in no way apologized. “Good. I bid you good evening, Mrs. Mulgrew.”
The coast of northern Scotland
Early winter, 1788
“There’s a light on the shore!” The midshipman hollered above the roar of the storm.
“Bonfire or lantern?”
Jeremy, huddled with the boy in the lugger’s forecabin, heard the captain bellow from topside.
The screech and crash of swinging booms and groaning wood drowned out the midshipman’s panicked reply and Jeremy clutched the boy closer, trying to master his own terror.
The ship suddenly tipped, pitching Jeremy and the boy down the steeply inclined floor of the cabin until it suddenly shot up beneath them and then dashed them down again with bone-shattering force. Above, a man screamed. The captain swore viciously.
A storm had pounced upon them just as they’d come in sight of the Scottish coast. Trying to outrace the black churning clouds, the captain had turned south, away from the port of Wick. But the storm had chased them down with the savage intentness of a wolf overtaking its prey and now tossed the small lugger about savagely.
Suddenly the hatch above jerked wide open and water poured in as the captain looked down, his face taut and strained. “We’re heading in! Whether to wreckers or our salvation, I do not know!” he shouted at them. “Make ready!” He slammed the hatch shut.
“What does he mean?” the boy asked. His face was white and his small body shaking violently, but he hadn’t cried, and only the boy’s courage saved Jeremy from succumbing and sobbing himself.
“Wreckers,” Jeremy said, looking about for some ballast to which he and the boy could cling. “Men who set fires to lure boats into the rocky shores where they will be smashed to bits. Then they scavenge the shores for loot and kill any survivors who could carry tales!”
The boy swallowed.
“Can you swim?” Jeremy asked, finding a length of heavy rope.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He spied a small wine cask and ripped the cork from it, upending the contents onto the floor while the boy watched him with round-eyed amazement. With numb fingers he laced the heavy rope through the brass handles on its side and recorked the cask.
“Come here. Good boy,” Jeremy said, lashing the rope around the boy’s waist and trying to tie a knot. “If it is wreckers and the boat
comes apart, try to hold on. And if you make it to the shore safely, hide!”
“Can you swim?” the boy suddenly asked.
“No.”
The boy stared and then with a violent sound clawed at Jeremy’s hands. “Then you must tie yourself to the barrel!
“Don’t be a fool, lad,” Jeremy said, hating the sob that broke his voice. “You have to survive. I have a sacred trust from your mother. I said I would do everything in my power to see you safely to Scotland and, by God, I shall.”
“No!” the boy shouted, fighting him furiously and Jeremy, God help him, slapped his small face hard, grabbing his narrow shoulders and shaking him violently as the ship listed and lurched drunkenly.
“Listen to me!” he shouted. “I count myself a man of honor. What honor would I have if you died and I survived? No, do not ask me to forfeit that thing that makes me worthy in my own eyes. I would not ask it of you!” he said fiercely.
“But, sir—” The boy’s face was terrible with conflict, with pride, and with terror. And honest devotion. Until that moment, Jeremy had never realized that the boy had feelings for him.
Jeremy’s heart lurched. He tried valiantly for a smile, softening his grip on the tight, shuddering little shoulders. “Besides, lad, this is but a precaution. Even if it is wreckers, I might find my way to shore yet. So do this for me.”
The boy’s eyes pressed closed a second and when he opened them he fixed his gaze on the rope Jeremy was trying to tie, swatting aside his hands and doing the knot himself, his lips quivering, tears spilling from his downcast eyes.
Crack!
The ship rolled and pitched, the prow shooting up as it hit something, sending the pair of them plummeting down the cabin amid a hail of tumbling furniture and luggage and books. The sound of splintering wood and screaming men blended with the howling wind.
So that was it, then. A great calm overtook Jeremy. Silently, he hauled up the boy strapped to the empty cask and stumbled with him up the steep inclined floor of the cabin while the ship groaned and screamed. He clambered atop the overturned desk and shoved open the hatch, grabbing the slight boy round the waist and pitching him up into the darkness outside amidst a torrent of rain and wind. He seized the boy’s hand as a wave washed over the shattered hull and a sudden realization caught him by the throat. He had not given the boy his mother’s purse or the letter to those who were to receive him. There was no time and the boy didn’t even know to whom he was going!
He tried to scream above the din and screech of shattering timbers. “Find Ros—”
A monstrous wave broke over the sinking ship, sending torrents of bitterly cold water streaming down the open hatch. For a precious few seconds he held the boy’s hand against the mighty force.
A second later the hatch collapsed.
4
The Haymarket Theatre, London
July 17, 1806
“WHAT A CRUSH. Such a terrible bore, don’t you agree, Miss Nash?” Some young Pink of the Ton whose name escaped Charlotte stood posed at the railing of the Weltons’ private box, his drawl matching his well-practiced ennui.
Charlotte nodded, her mouth curving coquettishly, though in truth, she barely heard him. All evening she’d been distracted by the fact that on his visit to her three nights ago Dand hadn’t given her a message to pass to Toussaint. Since that was his sole reason for being in London, he would be coming back to do so and soon. Tonight?
A crowded box at a popular opera would be an excellent place to do so. He might appear at any second, as an attendant, an usher, or even a raggedy beggar on the steps to the opera house. She would give him a penny, she thought, if this last proved the case. She smiled at the thought.
“La, here comes St. Lyon and begad if he ain’t bringin’ that prime bit o—” the Pink of the Ton broke off abruptly. “Er, he has Mrs. Mulgrew with him.”
The Comte St. Lyon sauntered into the box, Ginny Mulgrew at his side. Suavely, he bowed toward Lady Welton and greeted the baron. He was a handsome man, Charlotte thought, no one could argue otherwise. A little above middle height, slender and straight with the heavy Gallic features that somehow only the French can wear with urbanity. Dark, smooth hair swept back from a wide, furrowed forehead. A broad yet elegantly shaped nose separated dark, liquid eyes. He caught her studying him and with a self-satisfied smile approached.
The Pink inclined his head, his gaze sliding indecisively toward Ginny. “Comte,” he said. “Ah…ma’am.”
Ginny ignored him, making her way to the balcony rail overlooking the crush below. The comte cut him directly, too, thereby ending the boy’s miserable uncertainty of whether or not he ought to address a demirep in front of a lady. Mumbling a word of good-bye, the Pink slunk off, leaving Charlotte alone with the comte.
“How delightful to see you again, Miss Nash,” he said.
Falling effortlessly into the role she’d played for so many years, Charlotte’s brows rose, at once winsome and arch. “La, Comte! We meet so often I begin to fear you will find me most commonplace.”
“Never,” the comte declared. Though exquisitely polite, the very manner in which he refused to allow his gaze to stray from her face made Charlotte aware of her daring décolletage and her filmy silver lamé gown.
She resisted the impulse to draw her shawl up from where it gracefully draped her arms and cover herself. Instead, she laughed lightly, snapping open her fan and setting the silk and lace panels fluttering delicately over her bosom.
“No, I insist ’tis true,” she protested. “And I hereby swear off any entertainments where we might meet so that you will be forced to consider me frightfully exclusive.”
“Please, dear Miss Nash, do not deprive yourself of any pleasures on my account,” the comte said. “It is most unnecessary as, alas, tomorrow I leave your fair city.”
Charlotte arranged her features into a believable approximation of dismay. “But whatever for, sir?” she asked. “And might I be so bold as to ask where you are going?”
“Being bold suits you, Miss Nash,” the comte replied.
Charlotte answered by fanning a bit faster, as if he’d set her pulse racing. Oh, she was quite good at this.
“As to why and where,” the comte continued, “ ’tis a dreary responsibility. I am promised to host some of my former compatriots at my castle in Scotland. They are new to these shores and feel the need to rest before they begin their lives in England’s most illustrious city.”
A city the comte would see overrun with Napoleon’s soldiers if the price was right, Charlotte thought. “How kind you are, Comte. But how cruel of your guests to arrive during the height of the season, depriving us of your company!”
“I would that I could forgo it, Miss Nash. Still, ’tis not so great a hardship. The castle has been completely refitted and refurnished and is quite the seat of luxury. You must come and visit me there someday. Indeed, promise me you will.”
“That would be most pleasant,” Charlotte said, tipping her head winsomely while wishing him to the devil. “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Mulgrew?”
Ginny, returned from her perusal of the pits, had remained uncharacteristically silent throughout the exchange. “Yes. Wonderful.”
Around them, the Weltons’ others guests adjusted gloves, fanned themselves languidly in a futile attempt to cool the stuffy atmosphere, and in general prepared to depart. Few made any attempt to speak to the comte, none to his guest. Neither circumstance appeared to worry the comte.
“Did you enjoy the opera, Miss Nash?” he asked.
“Oh, I always enjoy a spectacle,” Charlotte responded with a glance across the packed opera house to the private boxes stacked up the ruby- and gilt-plastered walls like fantastical swallows’ nests. Inside each of these aeries, the Beau Monde turned avid faces toward the Weltons’ box.
She could almost hear them: “That girl is chasing a bad end.” “Havey-cavey sort of creature, the bane of the marchioness of Cottrell’s existence, I fear.” “Whatever are
the Weltons thinking to invite a demirep into their box? Are they trying to ruin their young friend Miss Nash?” and, most tellingly, “I fear Miss Nash needs no accomplice in that matter.”
“Oh my.” The comte had caught her wry glance at the curiosity seekers. He bent his sleek head toward her. “I hope I haven’t provoked any undue speculation?”
“I am certain not,” Charlotte said dryly. The comte, exquisite in a midnight blue jacket, white silk stock, and yellow waistcoat knew well enough it wasn’t his presence that caused the ripple of scandalized gossip. It was Ginny’s.
Her head high, her auburn hair gleaming beneath the raised houselights, Ginny looked around with bland imperiousness. Her gown, a rose-colored silk crepe ablaze with little crystal embroidered florets, put to shame any attempts to rival it. Her skin gleamed with the sheen only a powder of abalone dust could impart and her lips, reddened with currants, held the hint of a smile. Yet, for all her beauty, she stood alone, a little circle having opened up around her, separating her from the rest of the revelers in the Weltons’ box. If she noticed, she certainly didn’t appear to care.
“What of you, Mrs. Mulgrew? Did you enjoy the opera this evening?” Charlotte asked.
“Excuse me, Miss Nash. I wasn’t attending. You were saying…?” At Ginny’s response, the comte turned and held out his hand. Without hesitation, Ginny slipped her own into it. His expression was triumphant.
Why, that is why he has come here, Charlotte realized. He knew that the Weltons were the only members of the ton oblivious enough, or simply unconcerned enough, to receive him and Ginny into their private box and he wanted everyone of consequence to see Ginny and know that he had won her from her former situation as Lord Denney’s mistress. He has brought her here specifically to show her off as his latest acquisition.
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