Shana Galen

by When Dashing Met Danger

  “Call me a fool?” He sneered. She nodded.

  She took a step forward, and he could smell her enticing scent of cinnamon and vanilla. Bloody hell. After all they’d been through, how did she still manage to look and smell so alluring?

  “I don’t want to talk about my father.” His voice was firm but soft. “He has nothing to do with this.” His eyes flicked to her mouth—full and rosy and moist.

  He hadn’t been this close to her in days. She put her hand on his arm, and the heat from her skin burned through the linen. No, he didn’t want to talk about his father. He didn’t want to think about his father or the fact that, at that moment, he couldn’t have cared less if every man, woman, and child from Aberdeen to Athens called him a fool, if only he could touch her.

  He reached out, wrapping her in his arms, pulling her effortlessly against him. In his arms, she was the last puzzle piece, snapped softly and surely into place. Grasping her unbound hair, he wound the silk double around his fist, angling her head back. Her eyes stared up at him, wide, pupils dilated.

  “Alex,” she began. “This is a bad idea.”

  It was. Very bad. And even then he might have been able to stop it, stop himself, but her small pink tongue darted out, and she wet her lips unintentionally in anticipation.

  With a groan of need, he brought her mouth to his, seeking to assuage his gnawing hunger for her. But the touch of her lips, her small sigh of pleasure, the feel of her tongue meeting his, only left him wanting more. His mouth slanted over hers again and again and still it was not enough. Not nearly enough.

  He needed this. He needed to be the man he was in her arms. There was no playing of parts with Lucia. He wasn’t a spy, or a rake, or a man with too many deaths hanging over his head. He was just Alex.

  His hands were lifting the hem of her dress, caressing her thigh through the paper-thin material, when he heard the sprinkle of laughter.

  “I hate to interrupt, cher, but I have something I know you will want to see.”

  Alex looked up to see Camille standing in the doorway, waving a paper. “I knocked,” she explained, shutting the door. “But no one answered.” She gave them a playful look. “Now I see why.”

  Alex glanced from the paper to Camille’s face. Despite her light tone, he knew her well enough to see that whatever news she brought was deadly serious. As he loosened his hold on Lucia, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

  Lucia moved out of Alex’s embrace slowly. He was staring at Camille and seemed to have almost forgotten her. Camille would have to interrupt the first time Alex had shown any interest in her in days. The French woman was probably congratulating herself on her timing. But Lucia was careful to mask her irritation when she turned to face Camille, and she stayed close to Alex. No matter what he said, she didn’t trust the woman.

  “What have you found?” Alex asked Camille.

  “A message.” She waved a paper to and fro, smiling too widely—like a dog with his bone. “From Mr. Dashing.”

  “How?” Lucia jumped forward, barely restraining the urge to snatch the paper from Camille’s hand. “What does it say? Is John well? Safe?”

  Camille clucked. “Patience, Lucia.” She wagged her finger. Lucia wanted to break it.

  “Stop playing games,” Alex said. He held out his hand, but Camille evaded him. Holding the paper aloft, she crossed the room leisurely and sat on the couch, stationing herself in front of the crossed swords. She made a show of adjusting her cloak and gown. Lucia clenched her fists behind her back. She was on the verge of tearing the woman’s eyes out.

  Finally Camille said, “It was given to me only this morning by one of my contacts.”

  “What’s the date?” Alex asked.

  Camille glanced at the letter, still keeping its contents to herself. “Two days ago.”

  Despite her annoyance, Lucia’s knees went weak with relief, and she had to grasp Alex’s arm to keep from stumbling. John was alive. Alive and well. Only two days ago he had penned a message!

  “I hope you are familiar with Shakespeare,” Camille added, sitting back on the couch cushions and making a show of pondering the letter’s contents. Lucia frowned, and beneath her hand, she felt Alex stiffen. He seemed to be tiring of Camille’s game as well.

  “Why?” he said.

  “Because—” Camille waved the paper again. “This appears to be a passage from one of his plays.”

  Alex stomped to the couch. “Let me see.” He held out his hand, and Camille hesitated only a moment before handing him the letter. Lucia rushed to his side, peering over his shoulder to read. It was John’s handwriting. His words and from his own hand. He was alive.

  “Why didn’t he use the code?” Alex said, shaking the paper. “What is this supposed to mean?”

  “Perhaps there’s a new code,” Camille said silkily.

  “Based on Shakespeare? Middleton does most of our decoding, and Sebastian only knows the love stories. I’d believe it if this were Romeo and Juliet, but this…”

  Love stories? Code? Lucia had been too overwhelmed to read the missive closely, but now she said, “Let me see, Alex.”

  He handed her the letter and she pursed her lips as she read lines from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar.

  You all do know this mantle…

  Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through;

  See what a rent the envious Casca made;

  Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d,

  And as he pluck’d his cursed steel away,

  Mark how the blood of Caesar follow’d it,

  As rushing out of doors, to be resolved

  If Brutus so unkindly knock’d or no;

  For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel.

  Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him!

  This was the most unkindest cut of all.

  Alex raised an eyebrow when she glanced up at him. “It’s Mark Antony’s funeral speech,” she observed unnecessarily.

  “Does it mean anything to you?” He sounded irritated.

  She bit her lip, trying to piece the mystery together. “John loved the play,” she said slowly. “He had to memorize this speech for school, and one year during Michelmas break he quoted it until we were all ready to murder him.”

  “But why would John send this to the Foreign Office, to Middleton to be decoded?”

  “I don’t know.” She pressed her lips together. From the corner of her eye, she saw Camille gloating. Lucia turned back to Alex.

  “What’s special about Julius Caesar?” Alex said, pacing now. “It’s the story of Brutus’s fall. He’s a patriot.” He turned and paced back, his feet seemingly working in tandem with his mind. “Brutus wants to serve his country, but he’s also naïve, and Cassius is able to corrupt him.”

  Lucia was nodding excitedly. “But more fundamentally,” she interrupted, “it’s about betrayal. Brutus is Caesar’s friend, and Brutus betrays him. Oh, God, Alex!” She grasped him about the waist. “Do you think John knows there’s a traitor? Maybe that’s why he didn’t send the message in code. He knew there was a traitor.”

  Camille shook her head, and belatedly Lucia remembered her. She wished she could have taken the words back. Alex might trust Camille’s loyalty, but she didn’t. Had she just endangered John by speaking her thoughts in front of Camille?

  “Don’t you think this is all just a little farfetched?” Camille said. “Alex, s’il vous plaît…”

  “No,” Lucia snapped. “And I don’t hear anything better coming from your lips.”

  Camille shrugged smugly. “And as insightful as your observations have been, chérie, we still do not know where John is. Or do you purport to have the answer to that secret as well?”

  Lucia glared at her, then read the letter over again.

  “We know John is safe,” Alex was saying. “And he knows there’s danger. He hasn’t been found yet, so we can assume he’ll remain safe. We may have to go without him.”

 
“What?” Lucia’s head snapped up. “No! Alex, he needs us!”

  “We don’t have time, Lucia. Dewhurst will be waiting. Once you’re safe, I’ll come back for Dashing.”

  Lucia put her hand to her forehead and stared at the letter in frustration. There had to be something she was missing. John needed them. She couldn’t leave without him. But how to convince Alex of that? The words blurred before her eyes. What was John trying to tell them?

  Then it hit her. The passage. She read it again. The passage—of course!

  “Oh, my God! Alex, John is hurt.” She stumbled into him, holding the paper out like a plea. He caught her, holding her steady.

  “John’s wounded. That’s why he hasn’t contacted anyone until now. We have to find him. We can’t leave him. Not when he’s hurt.” She clutched his shoulders. She knew she was begging, but she didn’t care. She’d crawl on her knees if need be.

  “What are you talking about?” Alex stared at her. “Why do you think your brother is hurt?”

  “Look at the passage.” She waved the paper wildly before him. “It’s all about Caesar’s wounds and how he got them. The blood running from each, and the unkindest cut—the one from Brutus—Caesar’s betrayer!” She held the letter out to him and, reluctantly he took it.

  From her throne on the couch, Camille laughed. “You really should go into fortune-telling, chérie. You have a knack for reading too much into things.”

  Lucia opened her mouth to tell Camille what she could expect in her future, when Alex said, “I think she might have a point.”

  Lucia stared at him. He agreed?

  “Maybe Dashing is trying to tell us he’s been wounded.”

  Lucia beamed at him, but Camille threw her hands up in wonder. “So the boy is hurt. We still do not know where to find him.”

  “I do,” Alex said, and Lucia wanted to kiss him. He glanced at her, though his words were directed to Camille, “It all makes sense now. Julius Joubert.”

  “Julius?” Lucia repeated, her voice almost a screech of excitement.

  “He’s a doctor near Notre Dame who can be trusted. Wentworth knew him and may have told Dashing about him.”

  Camille rose, indignant. “Who is this doctor? Why was I never told of him?”

  “There was never any need.”

  Camille scowled.

  “Alex, we have to go to him,” Lucia said. “We have to get him out of Paris.”

  “No.” He gave her a firm look. “You’re not going anywhere.” He turned away from her, heading for his bedroom.

  “Alex, this is my brother,” she said, scampering after him. “I have the right to see him.”

  “And you will. Not now.” He shrugged his coat over his dark clothes and pulled the bicorne low over his features.

  “Why not?”

  “It could be a trap. I’m not risking it.”

  “A trap?” Camille said, coming up behind Lucia. “I do not believe a word of this. Alex, cher, I cannot believe you are pursuing this. No one reads that much into Shakespeare.”

  Alex glared at Camille, and Lucia was happy she wasn’t the only one to receive the evil eye when not in agreement with him.

  “I’m coming as well.” Camille held up a finger. “And don’t argue with me. If there is a traitor, I need to know who he is.”

  “And we’ll be safer if we’re all together,” Lucia added.

  Alex raked his hair. He was fighting it, but she knew she’d won.

  “All right. I can’t fight both of you.” He ground the words out. “But you’ll do everything I say. Understand?”

  She nodded eagerly.

  Ten minutes later she regretted her promise. He made her wear a cape from his own wardrobe, and it was far too large, not to mention inappropriate for a sunny May day. Her one consolation was that Camille had to wear a mantle, too, so they would suffer the heat together.

  They went out the back door of the building and climbed into the hired carriage Camille had waiting. She glimpsed Notre Dame’s magnificence briefly as they rode past, and she turned her head to see better. It stood like the hand of God reaching down from the heavens. She could just imagine Napoleon inside, dwarfed by its majestic arched ceilings and stunning stained glass windows, taking the French crown from Pope Pius to place it on his own head.

  A few moments later the carriage turned down a tree-lined avenue, and Alex rapped with his cane, indicating to the coachman to stop.

  “Stay here,” Alex instructed, looking pointedly at Lucia. “If it’s safe, I’ll come for you.”

  Lucia started to protest, but he was already exiting the coach in a flurry of black. She watched as he disappeared into an unobtrusive house shaded with enormous oak trees. Lucia glanced at Camille, then looked away. She wished Alex would hurry. Her brother was inside that house.

  After all their searching, it didn’t seem possible that he was finally so near. So near and yet…

  What was taking Alex so long? Lucia reached for the door. “I’m going inside,” she told Camille and hopped out. Camille reached for her, but Lucia scooted away, practically running by the time she reached the residence. At the door, she banged on the polished wood.

  She almost yelped when Alex pulled it open, yanking her inside, then dragging her to a room that was dim and musty compared to the sunshine of the street outside.

  “Do you ever listen?” he barked. His hand was on her elbow and he shook her gently. “I told you to stay—”

  “Is he here?” She glanced wildly about the room. “I want to see him.” The door opened again, and Camille entered the room. Then for the first time, she noticed an elderly man with a bushy white beard and eyeglasses standing by the window behind her.

  “He’s here,” Alex answered in French, his voice dark and low. Lucia winced, realizing she’d just barged into an unfamiliar house in a hostile country sputtering loudly in the enemy tongue.

  “Her carelessness is going to get us killed,” Camille sneered.

  Lucia ignored them. John was all that mattered. “Alex, please. May I see him?”

  Alex glanced at the doctor, who nodded. “Upstairs.”

  Taking her arm, he showed her the way, pausing outside a closed door.

  Chapter 26

  “Have you seen him?” Lucia asked, staring straight at the dark wooden door.

  “No, but Joubert said he’s hurt.” Alex’s look was grim. “Shot in the right shoulder.”

  Lucia tightened her jaw. He heart was pounding, and she felt dizzy at his words, but she had to be strong for John. Alex put his hands on her shoulders, and his touch steadied her.

  “Joubert removed the bullet, but John lost a lot of blood.” His voice was calm and soothing. “The wound became infected, and Joubertwasn’t sure he’d make it. Your brother’s just beginning to recover.”

  “Can he travel?”

  Alex frowned, and before he could give her an answer she didn’t want, she said, “Let me see him. Alone.”

  Alex frowned.

  “Alex, he’s my own brother. Just give me ?ve minutes with him.”

  He nodded. “I’ll be downstairs. Yell if you need me.”

  “I won’t.”

  He squeezed her shoulders reassuringly, then Lucia stood alone before the door. Her brother had always been so strong, so infused with life. What would she see on the other side of the door? Gathering her courage, she turned the brass doorknob and entered. Across the room, John lay on the bed, his eyes closed.

  She blinked. He looked very much as she remembered him from two months earlier. Tall and fair like her, with dark blue eyes and curly blond hair, although his was more of an ash blond, he looked like a man sleeping peacefully. With a shaking hand, she closed the door and went to him. In the dim light from the small window, she could see he was pale and his arm was wrapped in a sling. She took the chair beside the bed and clasped his hand. He opened his eyes with a slowness she would not have believed him capable of two months before.

  He stared a
t her, closed his eyes, and blinked at her when he opened them again. “Lucia?”

  “Yes. It’s me,” she whispered, leaning over to caress his brow.

  “What are you wearing?” he mumbled.

  Lucia paused. This wasn’t exactly the reunion she’d imagined. “Is that all you can say? I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  “Is this a dream?” he asked groggily, and she immediately felt his forehead for any sign of fever.

  “No, darling. I’m really here.”

  His eyes took her in again. “But your dress—”

  “John!” She punched him lightly, and he groaned. “Oh! I’m sorry!” She grasped his hand again, her anger rising. “But really! Who cares what I’m wearing! I’m here.” Brothers! They never changed.

  “I was shot in the shoulder,” he said, and she smiled.

  “I can see that. Do you know who shot you?”

  He shook his head. “No, but it was one of our own.”

  “I read your note. The passage from Shakespeare.”

  “How?” His eyes seemed to clear as the grogginess of sleep wore off. “What are you doing here?”

  She waved a hand. “I came with Alex, I mean the Earl of Selbourne. It was a horrible muddle. A man named Décharné abducted us because Alex is a spy.” None of that seemed to matter now that she was with John. She squeezed his hand again.

  “Good God, Lucia!”

  She blinked. “What?”

  He scowled at her. “What were you doing with Selbourne? Why were you put in danger?”

  “We were searching for you, of course! We were worried because you’d disappeared, and Father asked Alex to find you.”

  “How does that involve you?” He raised a hand before she could answer. “Never mind. I forgot for a moment who I was talking to.”