by Connie Mason
He jerked the key from his pocket and slapped it into Fleur’s palm with enough force to make her wince. “We’re through, Countess. The greatest mistake of my life was proposing to you. I was foolish to think you cared.” He sent her a withering look. “It shouldn’t take you too long to find a new lover.”
Reed turned on his heel and stormed out the door. Fleur burst into tears. The pain she suffered far exceeded Reed’s. The lies she’d spouted ate at her like maggots. Reed would hate her for the rest of his life.
Reed strode down the stairs, his hurt nearly unbearable. He had mistakenly thought Fleur returned his feelings, though she had never said the words. What a fool he was. His grandmother wanted him to marry, and so he would. He really didn’t care who he wed, even Violet would do. Yes, Violet was perfect. She wanted him, he wouldn’t have to court her and Grandmamma would approve.
Reed reached the bottom of the stairs, saw Updike standing there and spit out a curse. “What are doing up so early?”
“It’s not that early.” He glanced toward the stairs. Disapproval resonated in his voice. “When did you arrive, my lord? Does the countess know you are here?”
Reed didn’t feel compelled to offer an explanation. Let Updike form his own bloody conclusions. “It’s none of your business, Updike. Furthermore, I no longer find it necessary to monitor Lady Fontaine’s comings and goings. She may do what she pleases with whom she pleases.” So saying, he slammed out the door.
Fleur was still hurting as she waited in her chamber for Monsieur Barbeau to arrive to escort her to the Bonham soirée. She had donned a violet, scoop-necked confection with puff sleeves and a fitted waist for the affair. When Peg knocked on the door to inform her that her escort had arrived, Fleur tied on her bonnet, picked up her shawl and left the room.
Her brows rose in surprise when Count Dubois met her at the bottom of the stairs. “What a fetching outfit,” Dubois complimented.
“I thought Monsieur Barbeau was calling for me.”
“Monsieur is suffering from a minor illness and asked me to step in for him. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Nothing serious, I hope,” Fleur replied, hiding her dismay. She wasn’t sure being alone in a coach with Dubois was wise.
“A nagging cough that troubles him from time to time. I’m sure he’ll be right as rain in a day or two. Shall we go?”
“Yes, of course. It was kind of you to take Monsieur Barbeau’s place.”
“The pleasure is all mine.” He assisted her into the coach and entered behind her.
“Does Hunthurst plan to attend the soirée?” Dubois asked once Fleur was settled.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Fleur replied. “Why do you ask?”
Dubois sent her a sharp look. “I thought you and Hunthurst were . . . friends.”
“Acquaintances,” Fleur corrected.
“I asked Hunthurst if he had any objections to my courting you. He gave me his blessing.”
“When was that?”
“Several days ago; I encountered him at his club.”
“You wish to court me? Why?”
“Is that so strange? You’re a beautiful woman. I am not without resources. I did not cross the channel penniless.”
“I . . . have no intention of marrying again,” Fleur stammered.
Dubois reached over and patted her arm. “You’ll change your mind.”
While Fleur chatted, danced and smiled at the soirée, her mind returned again and again to the fact that Reed had raised no objection to letting Dubois court her. And that was before she had put a period to their relationship. How could he ask her to marry him while blessing the count’s plan to court her?
Fleur’s spirits rose when she saw Henry Dempsey walk into the soirée. She wanted to question him, and now was her chance. She needed to find out what he knew about the attempts on Reed’s life. She understood that Dempsey had been in France at the same time as Reed. She walked toward him but was forced to change directions when Gallard Duvall approached Dempsey and struck up a conversation. Fleur wished she could hear what they were saying, but they had moved to an alcove at the far end of the ballroom.
A flurry of movement near the entrance caught her attention, and she turned her gaze in that direction. Reed had just entered with his grandmother on one arm and Violet on the other. Helen followed behind. When Reed smiled down at Violet, Fleur’s breath caught in her throat.
What had she expected? She had literally forced him out of her life and into Violet’s arms. While Fleur watched him, Reed glanced up and saw her. Their gazes collided and clung. A smirk crossed his lips, and then he bent over and whispered into Violet’s ear. She laughed up at him. Heartbroken, Fleur turned away and found Dubois standing behind her.
“Is something wrong, Countess?”
“I . . . yes, I have a terrible headache. I wish to go home.”
His eyes narrowed on her, and then he smiled and nodded. “At once, my dear.”
Dubois escorted her to the foyer. “Wait here while I fetch your shawl and summon my carriage.”
Fleur couldn’t believe she was fleeing because Reed was paying court to another woman. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Indeed it was. Why then should she let Reed’s courtship of Violet upset her? She had yet to converse with Dempsey and was eager to do so.
“Here is your wrap, Countess,” Dubois said, draping her shawl over her shoulders.
Fleur turned to him with a smile. “My headache has suddenly disappeared. I’d like to stay, if you don’t mind.”
Dubois gave her curious a look but didn’t question her miraculous recovery. He offered his arm, and she accepted his escort into the ballroom.
“Would you like something cool to drink?” Dubois asked.
“Thank you, I’m parched.”
The moment he left her side, Fleur searched the ballroom for Dempsey. Instead of locating him, he found her.
“Countess Fontaine, we meet again.”
“Hello, Mr. Dempsey. I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve been wanting to speak privately with you but never found the right moment.”
“There is no time like the present. Would you care to step out on the balcony for a breath of fresh air? You are already wearing your shawl so the coolness of the night shouldn’t prove a problem for you.”
“Yes, fresh air is just what I need. We must hurry, though. My escort is fetching me something to drink.”
He offered his arm, and they promenaded around the perimeter of the ballroom and out the French doors onto the balcony. Only one other couple had ventured outside; Dempsey guided her to a far corner where they couldn’t be overheard.
“What did you wish to say to me?” he asked.
“Has Lord Porter told you about the traitor within the organization?”
“Does Porter think there is a traitor in our ranks?” he shot back.
“No, but Reed believes there is. Porter thinks otherwise. He suspects one of the émigrés of being a spy.”
“Interesting,” Dempsey said without revealing anything. Count Dubois could be a suspect. So could his friend, Barbeau.” He stared intently at her. “I am aware there are female agents in the organization; where do you fit in?”
“That’s not important,” Fleur demurred. “What do you know about Duvall?”
Dempsey looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Hunthurst’s cousin? I hardly think . . . ”
“I wouldn’t count him out until he’s proven innocent. Have you conferred with Hunthurst?”
“Why don’t you ask me that question?”
Fleur closed her eyes and swallowed. Then she turned slowly to face Reed. “Have you conferred with Mr. Dempsey?”
“No, I haven’t. I bear a message for you. Porter wants us to report to him tomorrow at four o’clock. Don’t be late.” His gaze shifted to Dempsey. “Porter did not request your presence, Dempsey.”
He nodded curtly and strode off.
Fleur stared after him, a thoughtful expression on her
face. “How long have you known Hunthurst?” Fleur asked Dempsey, dragging her gaze away from Reed’s departing back.
“I was aware of his work for the organization but never knew him well,” Dempsey replied. “We never crossed paths in France.”
“Do you know Andre?”
“Sorry, I’ve never heard of him. Is he an agent?”
“Never mind, it’s not important.”
“Why all the questions? Do you suspect me of something, Countess? Please speak freely; I have nothing to hide.”
Fleur glanced up and saw Count Dubois advancing toward her. “I have to go,” Fleur said, hurrying off to meet her escort.
Fleur left the soirée in the count’s company a short time later. Though she had learned nothing of importance, she had much to think about before her meeting with Reed and Lord Porter the next day.
To Fleur’s dismay, Dubois insisted on walking her to her door. “May I call on you tomorrow, Countess?”
Though Fleur hated to encourage him, she felt she couldn’t refuse. The meeting might lead to discovering something vital.
“I’ll be at home between two and three tomorrow afternoon,” Fleur said, affecting a smile.
“Until tomorrow then, Countess.” He grasped her hand and lightly kissed her fingers.
Fleur pulled her fingers from his grasp as a scowling Up-dike opened the door. “Good evening, my lady.”
Fleur waltzed inside. Updike, still scowling, closed the door in Dubois’s face.
“Are you all right, my lady?” Updike asked.
“I’m fine, Updike. Thank you for waiting up. Has Lisette retired?”
A slow flush crept up Updike’s face. “I believe so. I escorted her to her chamber an hour ago.”
“Hmmm, I see.” Actually, Fleur saw quite a bit. Updike was smitten with Lisette. She smiled all the way to her chamber.
Her smile died, however, when she recalled Reed’s coolness toward her and his attention to Violet and realized she had no one to blame but herself. She prepared for bed with a heavy heart.
Fleur slept late the following morning. She didn’t awaken until Peg arrived to open the drapes, letting in a flood of golden sunlight. She hadn’t slept well. Erotic dreams of Reed had plagued her and she hadn’t fallen asleep until nearly dawn.
“What time is it?” Fleur asked groggily.
“Almost noon, my lady. Lord Hunthurst is waiting for you downstairs in the study.”
Fleur jerked upright. “Reed? Here? Help me with my toilette.”
Twenty minutes later, Fleur had washed, dressed, had her hair twisted into a bun and was ready to confront Reed.
“You haven’t eaten yet, my lady,” Peg reminded her.
“So I haven’t. Please ask Updike to serve tea for us in the study in twenty minutes.”
Fleur’s heart thumped erratically as she entered the study. Why was Reed here? After their passionate night together, their less than amiable parting and his coolness at the soirée, she hadn’t expected to see him in her home anytime soon.
Reed arose from a chair before the hearth when she entered. “Countess,” he greeted coolly.
“Lord Hunthurst. To what do I owe this visit?”
Bloody hell, they sounded like two strangers, Reed thought. Not the lovers they had been these past few weeks.
“We need to talk. Please sit down.”
Fleur perched gingerly in a chair opposite him. “What is this about, Reed . . . my lord?”
Reed’s lips twisted into a grim smile. If Fleur wanted formality, he would comply. “Porter is convinced that the man who betrayed me in France is an émigré. I believe our spy comes from within our own organization. In order to prove my theory, I need to demonstrate that Dubois and his associates are exactly who they seem to be and not spies.”
“How do you intend to do that?”
“This is where you come in. Obviously Dubois is smitten with you. The Gibboneys, an émigré couple, are holding a fête next week. I’m hoping Dubois will ask you to accompany him. I want you to accept. While you keep him occupied, I shall break into his townhouse and search for evidence that could connect him to Napoleon.”
“You think Dubois is a spy?”
“Not really. What I intend to do is eliminate the suspects one at a time until only the guilty party remains. I’ll start with Dubois and work my way through the list of suspects.”
“Who else is on the list?”
He counted off on his fingers. “Barbeau, Duvall and some of the émigrés with whom they are friendly. Perhaps even Peter Weldon, the man who calls himself Andre.”
“You can forget about Andre. He played an integral role in your rescue from Devil’s Chateau. He was the one who recruited me for Lord Porter’s organization.”
“I cannot discount anyone. Will you do as I ask?”
Fleur’s answer was forestalled when Updike arrived with the tea tray.
“Will you join me? I slept late this morning and haven’t had time to break my fast.”
As Fleur poured tea into two cups, she eyed the accompanying sticky buns and buttered toast points hungrily.
“I’ve already eaten, but I’ll have tea, thank you,” Reed replied.
Reed watched Fleur take a dainty bite from her sticky bun, his gaze never leaving her mouth. He sipped his tea and waited until she finished the bun and licked the sugar off her lips with the tip of her tongue. His loins tightened, but he ruthlessly suppressed the desire welling inside him. “Will you do as I ask?” he pressed.
“What if the count doesn’t invite me?”
“He will,” Reed said grimly. “I watched him last night. He’s fascinated with you.”
Fleur couldn’t disagree with Reed’s assessment of Dubois’s intentions toward her. “He wishes to court me. He’s calling on me at two o’clock today.”
Reed stared intently at her. “How do you feel about his paying court to you?”
She glared at him. “I told him I wasn’t interested in marriage, even though you gave him permission to court me.”
Reed hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he let it out in a whoosh. “What other answer could I give him? Finding the traitor is our primary concern. Duty must take precedence over personal feelings.”
“If he asks me to the party, I will try to detain him at the affair as long as I can.”
Reed rose. “Excellent. We won’t mention this to Lord Porter until I find the proof I need.”
“What about Mr. Dempsey? Is he one of your suspects?”
“I cannot discount anyone at this point.” He affected a polite bow. “I will see you later at Whitehall.”
“Congratulations on your imminent engagement to Lady Violet,” Fleur said.
Reed didn’t acknowledge her words as he strode out the door.
Chapter Sixteen
Dubois invited Fleur to attend the Gibboney party when he arrived that afternoon at precisely two o’clock. She accepted his invitation, and they made small talk for an hour before Dubois took his leave.
Mindful of the time, Fleur prepared herself for her meeting with Porter. She arrived at Whitehall a few minutes before four. Reed was already there when she was ushered into Porter’s office.
Porter greeted her warmly. Reed merely nodded in her direction.
“What is this about, Porter?” Reed asked. “Have you found our traitor?”
“I wish I had good news, but I don’t. Peter Weldon, the operative known as Andre, dropped out of sight shortly after Lady Fontaine fled France. I hoped all was well, but my hopes were dashed when Captain Skilling brought word this morning that Weldon has been seized and put to death.”
“Oh, no!” Fleur cried. “The poor man. What happened?”
“I’m awaiting a report with more details, but I fear ’tis the work of our traitor. I don’t know how or when his cover was blown. It could have been weeks or months ago. I’m so concerned I’m ordering my agents in France to come home until this is resolved. I cannot risk an
other good man until the traitor has been brought to justice.”
Fleur glanced at Reed. His expression was grim; a white line had formed around his lips. She knew he was thinking about his own ordeal in Devil’s Chateau.
“I haven’t learned a blasted thing that could help us,” Reed growled.
“Neither have I,” Fleur admitted, “though I have a suspect or two in mind.”
“Might I ask who they are?” Porter asked.
“Henry Dempsey and Count Dubois,” Fleur answered, “though I have no proof either one of them is other than what he seems.”
“I have no idea why you suspect Dempsey, Countess,” Porter replied, “but I fear you are following a false lead. Dubois, on the other hand, is a distinct possibility. We’ve had our eye on him since his arrival in London.”
“I want a list of all our operatives who had been or are still in France,” Reed said. “Like Fleur, I believe Dempsey is a viable suspect.”
“Though I respect your opinions, I shall await the final outcome before condemning anyone,” Porter replied.
“Would Dempsey have knowledge of the Black Widow?” Fleur asked.
“Although he was in France during the time you worked undercover for us, I don’t think he knew about your work there. Weldon was charged with protecting your identity.”
“Why do you ask?” Reed inquired.
Fleur wasn’t ready yet to relate her recent conversation with Dempsey. The man seemed to know far too much about her. That struck her as odd.
“Weldon was a good man,” Porter continued. “I cannot afford to lose another agent. You and the countess must take care.”
“I can’t see how I’m in danger,” Fleur retorted. “I am no longer a threat to anyone.”
“Nor am I,” Reed added. “None of this makes sense.”
Fleur was about to mention Duvall but refrained. Duvall had a very good reason to want Reed dead. But since she hadn’t spoken with Duvall at length, she couldn’t voice an opinion.
The meeting was concluded soon after that. Reed offered her a ride home, and she accepted. Once he settled across from her, he said, “You suspect someone I hadn’t considered, don’t you?”