by Shana Galen
“Vincent,” she answered sweetly. “Miss Caroline Vincent.”
“Miss Vincent, your hand has apparently wandered to my…er, backside.”
She smiled prettily. “I know. It is wonderfully round and firm.”
Christ, he was doomed. If her father did not kill him, one of the ladies he’d abandoned—he spotted both Lady Willowridge and Lady Chesterton scowling at him—would. Rafe danced toward Phineas, catching his eye and giving him a pleading look. Phineas merely glared back at him, his expression clear: You wanted this ball.
What had he been thinking?
Miss Vincent squeezed his arse, and he nearly yelped.
“Would you prefer to find somewhere more private?” she asked, fluttering her lashes.
Rafe was always surprised at how many women actually fluttered their lashes and thought they looked appealing. To him, it always looked as if she had something stuck in her eye.
“No,” he answered.
Dear God, would this waltz never end?
Just then, he spotted Lieutenant Colonel Draven. Draven never came to these sorts of affairs. He’d probably come tonight because three members of his troop were in attendance. He spotted Rafe and gave a grudging nod of understanding when he spotted Rafe’s predicament. Rafe gave his former commanding officer a look of entreaty as he turned Miss Vincent one last time and separated from her as the music ended. He bowed, prepared to promenade her about the room. He might take bets on who would kill him first—her furious father, the irritated Lady Willowridge, the abandoned Lady Chesterton, or the icy Mrs. Howe. He’d forgotten that he’d left her in the supper room.
“Excuse me, miss. I do not mean to interrupt, but I must claim Mr. Beaumont for just a moment.” Draven put a hand on Rafe’s shoulder and pulled him away from Miss Vincent. Draven didn’t wait for her response. His word was an order and always had been.
Draven led Rafe away, and Rafe tried to walk as though he had not a care in the world instead of running for his life. Draven steered Rafe through the assembly rooms, past numerous ladies who would have stopped him if Draven hadn’t looked so formidable. The lieutenant colonel led Rafe down the stairs, past a row of liveried footman, out the door, and into a waiting hackney.
Once they were under way, Rafe leaned his head against the back of the seat. “That was too close.”
Across from him, Draven shook his head. “Lieutenant Beaumont—”
“Shh!” Rafe sat straight. “Don’t start bandying about titles. Do you want someone to hear?”
Draven stared at him. “Mr. Beaumont, I can see your popularity has been something of a…mixed blessing. Why do you not simply tell the ladies you are not interested?”
“I try,” Rafe said, settling back again. “But it always comes out all wrong. Not to mention, females tend to water when I reject them, and I hate to see a woman put a finger in the eye.”
“You don’t mind if a woman cries, as long as you don’t witness it.”
Rafe frowned. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. Do you think I’ve left a trail of weeping women?”
Draven barked out a laugh. “No. I think most women know what you are.”
Rafe straightened. “And what is that?”
“A man who flees even from the word ‘matrimony.’”
“Not true. I attended Mostyn’s wedding.”
“And I seem to recall a greenish tint about your gills the entire time.” He held up a hand to stay Rafe’s protest. “But I didn’t come to discuss marriage. I have an assignment for you.”
A sensation much like a mild bolt of lightning flashed through Rafe. “For me?”
“Yes.”
Rafe could not believe his good fortune. Finally! His chance. “But the war is over.”
“There are still dangerous people about, and the Foreign Office asked if I knew anyone who could take this assignment.”
“And you thought of me?” Rafe cleared his throat. “I mean to say, of course I came to mind directly.”
“Yes.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Yes.”
Rafe blinked. He hadn’t been expecting Draven to answer in the affirmative. Neil had rarely given him dangerous assignments during the war. Although Rafe had argued once or twice that slipping in and out of the bedchamber of one of Napoleon’s men, persuading his wife or mistress to reveal secrets, and slipping back out again without being caught was not without peril, it was not quite the same thing as running across a field while cannonballs exploded around you.
“Good.” Rafe clapped his hands together. “I have been wanting something to do besides chasing after women and attending social outings. What is it you need me to do?”
Draven smiled. “Attend social events and chase after a woman.”
Rafe sighed and sat back again. “And if I refuse to accept the assignment?”
“I don’t recall asking for your acceptance.”
“You’re no longer my commanding officer.”
Draven crossed his arms over his chest. “Would you like me to change that?”
“No.” Rafe knew as well as anyone Draven had connections in the highest spheres. One word to the Regent and Rafe might be back in uniform patrolling the Canadian frontier. “Tell me about my new assignment.”
Draven sat back. “Her name is Collette Fortier.”
“Fortier? Why does that name sound familiar?”
“Because her father was one of Napoleon’s most successful assassins.”
“And? If I remember correctly, Fortier is dead.”
“Yes.” The hackney slowed and Draven peered out the window. “I want you to find out more about his daughter.”
“How am I to do that?”
“We believe Collette Fortier is in London. We further believe she may be calling herself Collette Fournay and claiming to be a cousin of Lady Ravensgate.”
“Suspected French sympathizer and dear friend of Marie Antoinette’s daughter.”
“You are acquainted with Lady Ravensgate?”
“Not personally, but I’ve heard rumors. Is Lady Ravensgate taking Mademoiselle Fortier out in public?”
“I danced with the woman in question not a quarter hour ago, a woman Lady Ravensgate introduced as her cousin, a Miss Fournay. Your mission is to ascertain whether Miss Fournay is, in actuality, Collette Fortier, and if it is she, what she is doing in London. If she’s spying—and I think from my encounter this evening that there is a very good chance of that—discover what information she hopes to unearth and determine what she knows already.”
“And then?”
“And then you kill her.”
Two
He was here.
She hadn’t been able to help looking for him the moment she entered the drawing room. She would have chastised herself, but she did not think there was a woman alive who would not stare at Mr. Beaumont. He was simply the most stunning man she had ever seen. Not even the opulent room with its moldings and medallions, its porcelain and purfled vases could detract from the beauty of Beaumont.
“Miss Fournay.”
Collette dragged her eyes away from Beaumont and smiled at her hostess for the evening, Mrs. Saxenby. “How kind of you to come to our little salon.”
Collette curtsied. “Thank you for extending the invitation to include me.”
“You will not be disappointed,” Lady Ravensgate announced. “My dear cousin is quite enchanting, although I fear she may not be able to add much to the conversation tonight.” Lady Ravensgate gave Collette a meaningful look. “She is a cousin from France and does not know much about English politics.”
“Oh, that is quite all right,” Mrs. Saxenby declared. “We cannot all hold the floor. Someone must act as the audience.”
Collette smiled. She was quite content to act as the audience. She had alway
s been somewhat shy and averse to attention, and these traits were valuable considering one of the best ways to gather information was to sit back and listen. Tonight she hoped to find out more about Lieutenant Colonel Draven. Since the ball where they’d danced, she had not seen or heard any news about Draven. But Draven’s secretary in the Foreign Office, a Mr. Palmer, was supposed to frequent Mrs. Saxenby’s salons.
In the three months since she’d landed on the coast of England, in the dark of night and in secret, Collette had made her way to London and sought out Lady Ravensgate, a wealthy widow. She’d been told the widow had been friends with her father, and Lady Ravensgate had certainly treated her like a long-lost daughter. Collette even remembered her father mentioning the late Lord Ravensgate as a man who would help them if she and her father ever needed to escape Napoleon’s France. But so many people had dual loyalties that Collette had learned not to trust. And if the Ravensgates were so loyal, why had her father not fled when the Bourbons had retaken the throne? He must have known under the king he would suffer and be imprisoned for his work for the upstart Bonaparte. Had her father thought the Bourbons would forgive all or did her father not trust Lady Ravensgate as he had her husband?
She wished she could ask him, but he was imprisoned in Paris, and the only way to free him was to bargain with the royalists. That was why she needed the British codes.
“Won’t you have a seat?” Mrs. Saxenby led Collette and Lady Ravensgate to a couch off to the side of the main grouping. In the center of the room several men in crisp evening dress stood discussing a poem Collette had not read. Collette looked down, pretending to study her reticule’s drawstring while she listened. These few moments before the formal discussion began were the best time to glean information, if there was any here to be gleaned, which she rather doubted. Once the program commenced, most of the conversation would stick to that topic.
It was the ideal time for a spy in London. The Season was at an end and most of the key political figures were in the country. But Britain’s security was always at risk, and men like Draven and others at the Foreign Office were still in London.
Collette fingered her drawstring, listened to the voices around her, not hearing anything of substance, and then lifted her head and scanned the room. Her gaze landed on Mr. Beaumont. But then she’d been looking for him, hadn’t she?
As usual, he was surrounded by a wall of women. No fewer than five vied for his attention tonight, and he seemed to entertain them effortlessly. The ladies tittered every few moments. If only she had a reason to believe Beaumont would say something of interest, she might join those women. But Lady Ravensgate had instructed her to pay close attention to William Thorpe, a writer and political satirist, and it just so happened that Thorpe was in conversation with James Palmer, Draven’s secretary. Neither man was half as attractive as Mr. Beaumont, but Collette brought her attention back to them nonetheless. Palmer had a snooty attitude and round spectacles he liked to remove and polish as he spoke. Thorpe was thin and looked hungry as he listened to Palmer discuss poetry.
“Would you like some wine or lemon water, dear cousin?” Lady Ravensgate asked solicitously.
“Wine, thank you,” Collette replied. Her sponsor rose and made her way around the room on the pretense of fetching refreshments for herself and her cousin. In reality, she was listening and collecting as much useful information as she could. But why? Did she have her own agenda or could Collette believe all her efforts were in sacrifice to her father?
Palmer and Thorpe continued to discuss the poem, and Collette found her gaze once again straying to Mr. Beaumont. What was the matter with her? She needn’t pay him any attention. His presence here didn’t signify. She’d had a fleeting moment of worry after he’d been at the last two events she’d attended, but Lady Ravensgate had dismissed her concern. Beaumont was a gallant who went wherever pretty women might be. His intellect, if he had any, was focused on persuading women to join him in bed. He was a former soldier and a war hero, but since returning from the war, his life had been given over to debauchery.
“Not someone you should associate with, my dear,” Lady Ravensgate had warned. Collette detested Lady Ravensgate’s insistence on calling her cousin and dear even when the two of them were in private.
“But do you not think it odd that he is at the same events we have attended?”
“No. With so few social events in London this time of year, everyone is at the same events.” Lady Ravensgate had narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re half in love with him too?”
“No!” Collette had answered far too quickly.
“Good. Because he isn’t chasing after you. Women pursue him, not the other way around. And I’ve yet to see him with the same woman on his arm twice.”
Collette’s face flushed hot now as she remembered Lady Ravensgate’s words. Of course, a man like Beaumont wouldn’t be interested in her.
Except he was looking at her.
Collette’s cheeks heated, and she lowered her gaze. She should be paying attention to Palmer and Thorpe, not staring at Mr. Beaumont like some moonstruck girl of sixteen.
“Well, between you and me, Draven hasn’t relaxed his guard just because the Bourbons are back on the throne in France. In fact, certain communications we intercepted seem to imply…” He turned away from Collette and lowered his voice.
Collette almost swore in frustration. She’d been attending the theater, salons, garden parties, and every other social outing Lady Ravensgate could arrange, and this was the first time she’d heard anything directly referencing coded messages, even if these were not the codes she needed. If the English were intercepting coded French messages, they had to have the ciphers in order to read them. But what did the French communications say? And what would the English response be? It would be a good time to attack as France’s government and political system was in tatters at present. The French would only know the British response if she could somehow obtain the ciphers England used to code its own messages.
Those ciphers would decode the letter her father had entrusted to her as well.
She attempted to calm herself. She had to move closer and find a way to participate in the discussion. She had to determine if Draven himself coded missives to operatives. If so, he was in possession of the British ciphers she needed. She lifted her reticule and began to rise, only to look up and find a tall figure standing over her.
“Miss Fournay?” Mrs. Saxenby stood before her as well, but off to the side. The figure in front of her blocked her path to Palmer and Thorpe.
“May I introduce a dear friend to you? Miss Fournay, this is Mr. Beaumont.”
Collette blinked up at Mrs. Saxenby and then gaped at Mr. Beaumont. She was generally shy around men, especially handsome men, but one look at Mr. Beaumont, and she was speechless. She had glimpsed him across the room dozens of times, but nothing could have prepared her for the sheer masculine beauty of the man standing in front of her. His polished boots rose to his knees, which were encased in tight breeches of ebony. His waistcoat was snowy white with silver thread crawling over it like regal vines. His black coat showcased a slim waist and broad shoulders, while his snowy white cravat highlighted the days’ worth of stubble on his chin. He obviously hadn’t bothered to shave for the evening, and she might have wondered if he’d even brushed his hair. The chestnut-and-mahogany waves curled about his ears and fell rakishly over his forehead.
His splendor rendered her spellbound, and she was struck mute by his eyes. They were a shade of blue that could not be called anything but violet, and they were striking, especially fringed as they were with thick, dark lashes. Collette could have stared at those eyes forever. She desperately wanted to paint them—to see if she could mix just the right paints and match the color perfectly.
Beaumont bowed, and Collette stared at the top of his head, before he lifted it and met her gaze at eye level. He gave her a dashing sm
ile, his eyes crinkling slightly and his lips curving in a most seductive manner. He looked at her as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. As though he knew precisely the sort of effect he had on her.
“Miss Fournay?” The sound of a woman’s voice came from somewhere nearby, though Collette could not have dragged her eyes away to locate the source if her life had depended on it. She could not look away from the handsome man smiling at her.
“I believe it is customary for you to give me your hand at this point,” Beaumont said, his smile never faltering.
Collette heard his words, but she didn’t exactly comprehend them. He had the loveliest baritone voice, not too high and not too low. Exactly perfect.
“Miss Fournay,” Beaumont said.
She blinked and raised her brows at the use of the name she’d almost come to believe was actually hers.
“Give me your hand,” he said.
She held out her gloved hand. He took it and raised it to his lips, kissing the back with a lingering slowness that sent shivers up her spine. And when he should have released her hand and stepped back, he held onto it when he straightened. His gaze never left hers.
“Well, then, I suppose my duty is done,” Mrs. Saxenby said, sounding somewhat miffed. “Excuse me.” And with the silk of her skirts rustling, she walked away, ostensibly to tend to her other guests. Collette could not have said because she was physically incapable of dragging her gaze away from Mr. Beaumont. She should have taken her hand back as well, but she would have as soon dipped it in hot tar than remove it from Beaumont’s gentle hold. Though they both wore gloves, she imagined she could feel the heat from his skin seeping into her own, and just the idea of his bare flesh touching hers made her face flush hotter. She feared her cheeks were red as apples.
Collette had no idea how long the two of them stood there, gazing at each other, hands clasped together. It felt like hours to her and yet like no time at all when he finally released her hand. And then she didn’t quite know what to do with it. She left her hand hanging in midair because it hardly felt like hers any longer.