A Code of Love (The Code Breakers 1)

by Jacki Delecki

“But Cord, what about Uncle Charles and Edward?”

  He took a deep breath. It should’ve been obvious to Henrietta that he was done talking about her family.

  “Your uncle and brother will live with us. We should try to keep everything as familiar for your uncle as possible, so the Bromptons and most likely Robert and Thomas will have to move to our household.” He watched her consider how he had already organized their lives to become intertwined.

  “What of your family? Will they mind the intrusion of all the Harcourts?”

  “My Aunt Euphemia will be a tonic for your uncle. And if what my aunt tells me is true, Gwyneth will not be residing much longer at Rathbourne House.

  “I just couldn’t imagine leaving my uncle or Edward.”

  “I’d never want you to have to decide between me and the intrepid Harcourt men.”

  “Thank you.” She stretched her arms out to him, beckoning him.

  Their second lovemaking was as slow and tender as their newly expressed love for each other. Afterward, he held her tight against his chest, grateful for the future they would share.

  He ran his finger down her spine, caressing her soft skin. “I assume you’re planning on continuing as England’s code breaker?”

  “You don’t object?”

  “Object? I’m the head, how could I object to having the best?” He watched her face to see if she appreciated his double entendre. He moved his hand up her leg, stroking behind her knee.

  “Are our daughters and sons going to be learning codes at their mother’s knee?”

  “Of course, but our children will learn the most important code of all.”

  “What code is that?”

  “The code of love.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Charles Talleyrand, Foreign Minister of France, sauntered in silence with his archenemy, Joseph Fouché, down the long, gilded corridor. Anyone observing them, one fierce in a severe black uniform with gold buttons, the other nonchalant in dark velvet and lace, wouldn’t believe the casual amble between two sworn enemies.

  Afternoon light shone through the windows lining the ornate ministry hallway, squares of sunlight illuminated the path the two men walked.

  Fouché’s boots struck a cadence on the parquet floors. “How did you get the codebook back?” Talleyrand was amazed. Fouché was acknowledging his plot to attain the codebook.

  “I never did recover the stolen codebook. Kendal escaped Paris and had already sent the codebook to England,” Talleyrand said.

  Fouché, usually a dour man, chuckled. “Of course, my idiots let them pass too.”

  “As did my man. Who would’ve guessed?”

  There was a silence as both men paused to reassess. Neither man had risen to his position of power by trusting an enemy easily.

  “How will you hide the fact that the English have obtained the codebook?” Fouché asked.

  He pondered whether he should divulge the truth. Fouché couldn’t possibly use the information against him. The Emperor had confided in him this morning that Fouché’s reign was drawing to an end. “Chiffre and his staff are developing a new code.”

  “What about the codebook the English have? Will it help them?”

  “Le Chiffre doesn’t believe it will make a large difference to our efforts in battle communications.”

  “All the intrigue around the codebook was for naught?” Fouché asked.

  Talleyrand didn’t see any reason to point out that the entire debacle was caused by the man at his side. Fouché had killed De Valmont, one of Talleyrand’s best spies. Fouché had ruined his plans for political chaos around the English election.

  This was the problem with political work—one could never clearly predict the outcome of one’s manipulations.

  “What about the murder of the Duke of Wycliffe by your man?” Fouché asked.

  “I’ve heard the murder has been hushed up at the highest level.”

  Fouché guffawed. “Of course they had to hush it up. Why would the English acknowledge that one of their dukes was a traitor?”

  “All swept away by Rathbourne,” he said.

  “If I were in Rathbourne’s position, there would be strong repercussions for young Kendal, who started the whole intrigue,” Fouché said.

  Talleyrand looked at Fouché’s coarse features. He knew what Fouché consider strong repercussions. Fouché didn’t realize there were going to be consequences for his latest violent scheme. If he were to believe Napoleon’s promises this morning, the police minister had gone his extent in French history.

  “I don’t think Kendal will suffer too much. Rathbourne just married Kendal’s sister.”

  Epilogue

  Michael Harcourt lay on his stomach on the settee in the drawing room. Waiting wasn’t his strong suit, nor was enduring pain. At home, Hen would entertain him, making illness or injury more tolerable. He missed his sister, his family, and England.

  How did this jaunt to Paris become so muddled? His curiosity had gotten him into sticky situations before, but this was his most awkward ever. He hoped the new head of Abchurch was tolerant of inquisitive individuals. Hen would soften the old man when she gave him the codebook.

  Denby entered the library, his posture ramrod, reflecting his years of military discipline. “We’re surrounded. I was followed by at least three different agents, including Le Chiffre’s footman and two I’ve never seen before. Fouché’s officers are watching our house.”

  Michael’s whole body tightened, causing pain to shoot into his ass. “Fouché’s secret police?” What had gone so wrong? The brutality of the minister of police’s men was legendary.

  “Yes, their stark, black uniforms are quite distinguishable.”

  Michael gulped his brandy. “How did you escape?”

  “I took them all on a merry chase through the streets of Saint Germaine, down the Rue du Bac, over the Pont Neuf and into Notre Dame.”

  Denby got to outwit the French police as he fretted, unable to do anything but lie on his stomach. “Were you able to lose them?”

  “I entered Notre Dame and blended with the devout, attending Matins. I hid in a side altar dedicated to Saint Genevieve, crouched behind the statue of Our Lady for what felt like hours.”

  “Pour yourself a brandy. You deserve it. And while you’re at it, please top me up—most of my brandy is on my dressing gown.”

  Denby took the glass off the floor and proceeded to the side table filled with glass decanters. He poured generous amounts for both of them.

  “It’s been most interminable to be immobile. How many followed you into Notre Dame?”

  “Three agents. Fouché’s men remained watching the house. The agents passed from altar to altar, pretending to pray. After waiting them out, I came from behind the statue, only to be discovered by Sister Marie Therese.”

  “Sister Marie Therese?”

  Voices were heard coming from the front hall.

  “My God, they’re already here.” Denby jumped off his chair.

  Michael’s heart thumped painfully against his chest. Had the footman admitted Fouché’s men into the house? He tried not to betray his fear but his voice trembled. “Fouché’s men?”

  “Someone is watching over us.” Denby looked upward toward heaven. “I’ve already been saved twice today by St. Genevieve, the Patron Saint of Paris.”

  Michael looked down into his brandy glass. He must have drunk more than he thought. Denby, a hardened solider, believed in heavenly intervention?

  The footman opened the door to the drawing room and announced Sister Marie Therese and Sister Genevieve. The sisters were encased in black except for large wimples that looked like upside-down croissants. The white head covering smashed their faces as if they were wedged in a vise.

  Michael attempted to stand. He was quite adroit at avoiding any pressure or pain in this maneuver. Using his arms to push himself off the settee, he planted one leg at a time, twisting forward, preventing any backside contact.

&
nbsp; Hurrying to greet the approaching guests and to secure his dressing gown from revealing any part of him, he twisted a bit too quickly and fell backward on his wound. The pain on impact was excruciating. “Son of a bitch.” He knocked over his brandy in the fall, spilling the liquid into his boots. “Double son of a bitch.”

  Denby greeted the two nuns. The older nun held a young boy’s hand; a round, smiling nun carried a large portmanteau. Denby turned back at the commotion. He signaled with his thumb for Michael to get off the floor.

  Without any help from Denby, Michael was left to stand.

  “Sister Marie Therese, Sister Genevieve. You found your way with no difficulty. This must be Pierre,” Denby said.

  Hampered by his dressing gown, Michael struggled on all fours to obtain an upright position.

  His eyes wide, the boy giggled at Michael’s gymnastics. He whispered to the older nun whose severe lines softened when she leaned down to answer the youth.

  Sister Marie Therese’s penetrating gaze left Michael feeling fully exposed.

  “Monsieur Denby, I’m not sure this is the man for the job.” The sister shook her head. “No, this will not do.”

  Now upright, Michael walked toward the nun. He tried to move forward with decorum, his hands holding his dressing gown together. He glanced at Denby, whose face was red. Could a stalwart of the cavalry be embarrassed by the woman’s censure?

  “Please, Sister Marie Therese. You’ve caught Lord Kendal at an inopportune time. He’s all I promised.”

  Michael walked toward the group. “Please, Sister Marie Therese…” he stumbled, unsure of how to address the sister. He could feel three sets of eyes inspecting him.

  “Sister Marie Therese and Sister Genevieve, may I present Lord Michael Harcourt, the Earl of Kendal.” Denby said.

  With the correct amount of aristocratic poise for greeting the nuns, who had just witnessed his disgraceful fall, Michael bowed. He ignored the pain that shot down his backside. “A pleasure, I’m sure. May I ring for tea?”

  The round Sister Genevieve smiled. It was obvious that she had an amiable personality, unlike her superior.

  “Thank you. I don’t believe there is time. Please only a snack for Pierre. He’s a growing boy,” Sister Marie Therese said.

  “How do you do, Pierre?” Avoiding further pain, Michael nodded instead of bowing to the youth.

  The boy whispered almost inaudibly, “Monsieur.” He kept his eyes down. A hat covered his hair.

  “We should make the switch quickly. The men watching your home will be suspicious of your entertainment of the Sisters of the Visitation.” Sister Marie Therese’s voice was brisk, her manner fixed.

  Denby escorted the sisters to the settee and chairs. He kicked Michael’s brandy glass under the settee. “I haven’t had time to explain our plan to Lord Kendal.”

  “We’ll give him the details during the dressing.” Sister Marie Therese pointed toward her companions. “Sister Genevieve and Pierre, unpack the portmanteau on the settee his lordship was resting on.”

  What the hell was Denby thinking? Michael wasn’t going to let a nun dress his wound. And by appearances she planned to do it in front of Sister Genevieve and the young boy.

  Sister Marie Therese turned toward Michael.

  “Lord Kendal, you’ll need to remove your dressing gown.”

  He turned to Denby for an explanation, but Denby was looking at the ground, his face bright crimson. The seasoned solider was acting like a chaste debutante.

  “I’ll not remove my dressing gown.”

  “Lord Kendal.” Sister Marie Therese stepped closer to him. Her voice was impatient and the look in her eyes was one she might give to Pierre and other wayward children. “You and Mr. Denby will leave Paris disguised as Sisters of Visitation.”

  History Disclaimer

  Dear Reader,

  I’m not an historian and want to apologize for any errors caused by my overactive imagination not sticking to the facts. In my college days, I did consider pursuing a career in history, but I’m much more suited to fiction writing. I get to read and research and then make up my own “fictional version” of important historical moments.

  The rivalry between Fouché and Talleyrand is documented, but my version of their relationship is totally fictional.

  I’ve taken liberty with the role of women in espionage during this time period. I wanted to depict all the varied possible roles women may have played during wartime. We are all familiar with the traditional female role of Mata Hari, but I tried to make Isabelle a sympathetic character and not just a sexual object. Henrietta, forced to assume her uncle’s role as code breaker is something I could imagine any caring woman undertaking for a family member.

  Of course, I had the most fun creating Aunt Euphemia, based on the fact that aristocratic English women did go to France and rescue women and children from the guillotine.

  I also had great fun inserting my loyal companions, Gus and Talley, my two Golden Labs, as characters. My beloved Talley died in November at the age of 14 years. I had written the description of her character as fiercely loyal when I wrote the first draft years ago and it would still be the way I would describe her. Look for more of her character in the next book. I write to honor her memory and her loyal companionship.

  All my best. And thank you for reading A Code of Love.

  Here is an excerpt from my contemporary, romantic mystery, An Inner Fire.

  Excerpt from

  An Inner Fire

  by Jacki Delecki

  Chapter One

  Grayce Walters’ left hand twitched. Her universe spun on an altered axis. Her instincts swirled. Her intuition flared.

  Earlier today, a cranky feline had gouged her, a sneaky dog had nipped her, and now, late for dinner with friends, the parking gods were messing with her. Something was coming. Something strange.

  Her headlights probed the mist, dissolving in the murk of Puget Sound fog. Her intuition acted like an inner GPS, directing her to the far side of Seattle’s Fisherman’s Terminal. The beams shone on a yellow heap between stacks of crab traps. A dog lay on its side, barely visible in the shadow of a fishing shed.

  Stepping out of her car, she inhaled the musky smell of salt water. A horn blared from the Ballard Bridge. Grayce jumped at the sudden sound. She grabbed a flashlight and moved into the mist toward the large canine.

  She knelt on the damp cement next to the Golden Retriever. Relieved to observe the dog’s shallow respirations, she released a slow breath Baxter was written in bold script on the dog’s red leather collar.

  She gently ran her hand along Baxter’s inert body. Her cold fingers probed the crown of his head, locating an egg-sized lump on the back of his skull.

  “Your head hurting, Baxter?”

  The large retriever wagged his tail ever so slightly and then stilled.

  Grayce scanned the cluster of corrugated fishing sheds. A deep foreboding flooded her senses. “Baxter, I need to get us away from here.”

  She searched the waterfront, looking for the perpetrator of Baxter’s injury. The overhead lights on the docks cast an eerie halo on the boats bobbing in the black water.

  Screeching hinges broke the silence. The sound raked her skin like dogs’ nails skittering across the metal exam tables in vet school. Her nervous system ratcheted into high alert.

  The sound of a door opening in the next row of sheds echoed in the night’s silence. Then she heard footsteps on the cement, moving toward the water. The sound of the footsteps grew distant, swallowed in the darkness.

  Under the dock lights she spotted him, a beefy man with a satchel slung over his shoulder. Wearing the slicker and boots of a commercial fisherman, he moved with an energized self-assurance toward the boats. Rage and elation radiated from him. Grayce was sucked into his dark violent energy. She fought the temptation to absorb his malevolence.

  The footsteps stopped. He looked back in her direction. A raw chill penetrated Grayce’s body. She bent fo
rward to shield the dog and tightened her hold on the flashlight, ready to protect Baxter.

  Moving in and out of the shadows on the wharf, the overhead beams caught the top of his head. His hair shone a fiery red. He walked into the fog.

  Baxter whined, breaking the tense silence. She ran her hands along the damp dog searching for further injuries. “You’re going to be alright, big guy.”

  Nerves stretched taut, she twisted to look for the man. She studied the entire area searching for him. Every sound boomed in her ears.

  She fumbled in her jeans pocket for her phone, then hesitated. Grayce hit favorites for James, her best friend.

  Damn! Voicemail.

  Peeling off her coat, she covered the dog.

  “Baxter!” A woman’s voice, then a whistle.

  The dog’s ears shot up as he bolted upright. He gave a high-pitched yelp, shook several times, and loped in the direction of his owner’s voice. Twenty feet away, a middle aged woman stood next to her Volvo station wagon with the hatch-back door open. Baxter jumped effortlessly into the car. The dog’s large head was silhouetted in the rear window as they sped away.

  She bent to pick up her rain jacket when a massive blast shook the wharf causing the cement to sway beneath her. The harsh sound reverberated in her ears as the tremor traveled through her legs.

  She whirled around, trying to locate the source of the explosion. Shock waves continued to pulsate throughout her body.

  She heard the fire before she saw it, a slow hiss followed by a roar. Twenty foot high flames shot out of a shed less than a few car lengths away. Heat blazed across her face, hot enough to singe her eyebrows and eyelashes.

  Primitive fear imploded in her chest. She ran, ran as if the flames chased her.

  The fire’s heat penetrated her sweater to her skin. She sprinted, her feet and heart pounding.

  When she reached the far side of the wharf, at the far side of the inferno, she dialed 911.

  The wail of sirens filled the night’s silence.