by Brenda Joyce
He had a niece and nephew he never saw. But he was hardly a family man.
He had to exercise the utmost caution wherever he went. In fact, he had been as careful when he had ventured to Roselynd last night. He had considered the countess’s inquiries a possible trap. But he had not been followed, and no one had shown up at her door to arrest him while they spoke.
He paused on the threshold of the public room, trying to peer through the smoke, a very dark, partly sexual, tension within him. The Countess D’Orsay was as beautiful as claimed. Curiosity had compelled him to meet her. He had wanted to see if she was such a great beauty—which she was—and he had also wanted to see if she was setting a trap for him—which she was not. But he hadn’t expected her to be the woman he had rescued in France, four years earlier.
And the moment he had recognized her, it had been like receiving a stunning blow to the chest.
He had realized, instantly, that she was the woman who had claimed to be the Vicomtesse LeClerc. He had been stunned, but he had hidden it.
He could easily forgive her that deceit. He did not blame her for hiding her identity from him, although he would have never revealed it had he known.
But he hadn’t ever really forgotten her. She had haunted him day and night for days and even weeks after that Channel crossing.
And now, that old man she had married was dead.
And for one moment, he did not see the dozen men within the tavern he’d stepped into. He could only see Evelyn D’Orsay, with her dark hair and vivid blue eyes, so tiny and petite.
He lived a dangerous life, and his survival depended upon his instincts. They were finely honed from years of outrunning the revenue men, and now, two navies. Every instinct he currently had warned him to stay far from Evelyn D’Orsay.
It wasn’t just that he had found her terribly beautiful four years ago, so beautiful he almost felt smitten at first sight. But when she’d looked at him with her big blue eyes, imploring him to rescue her, she awoke the strongest, most unfamiliar urges in him—urges to defend and protect. It was as if she had endured a lifetime of suffering and hurt, which he must somehow ease. He had been highly affected by her desperation back then. But he had hidden it, taking her rubies as payment for his services. He had remained as indifferent and aloof as possible.
Last night, he had steeled himself against her again.
It hadn’t been easy. He had forgotten how striking she was—how tiny. And the shadows in her eyes remained. When she looked at him, her eyes filled with desperation, he had those same consuming urges as before—urges to protect her from life’s ills. Urges to rescue her. Urges even to hold her tight.
It was absurd.
So while she might be destitute now, he reminded himself that she had hardly had a life of misery—she had married one of France’s premier titles. She had been wealthy for many years. The odd urges he had when she looked at him were senseless. The raging attraction, well, that he could certainly justify—and dismiss.
But the truth was that he had helped several families flee France without receiving any kind of compensation from them at all. These Frenchmen and women had left everything they had behind; he hadn’t considered turning them away. But with the Countess D’Orsay, it was different. He knew he must never come to her rescue in a personal way. Their relationship must remain a strictly impersonal one—he was sure of it.
She was simply too enticing and too intriguing. She stirred up too many feelings, and he could very easily become attached. And he had no use for attachments outside of those to his family. He was a rogue, a smuggler and a spy—and he liked his life exactly as it was—he liked living outside society, he liked being on the run.
As for the kiss they had shared, he had to stop thinking about it. Thus far, that had proven impossible. He could not recall ever being so aroused, but when he had kissed her, it had also felt as if he were holding an innocent debutante in his arms.
Yet he knew better—she was a countess, a grown woman, a widow and a mother. She was not innocent and inexperienced. And if he believed, even for a moment, that he could enjoy her bed without becoming entangled with her, he would do so immediately. But he did not think it would be easy to leave her after a single night, so he would stay away—far away.
Therefore, no matter what she offered, no matter how she offered it, he was not going to France for her. He had never been more resolved.
“You have made it—and you are in one piece,” his brother said, cutting into his dark thoughts. He was embraced, hard, by a tall golden-haired man, more politely dressed than Jack was. No one could mistake them for anything other than what they were—brothers. “We are in the back,” Lucas added unnecessarily.
Jack was thrilled to see his older brother. Their father had been an irresponsible rogue, and he had abandoned their mother when Jack was six years old. Lucas had been almost ten at the time. Their uncle, Sebastian Warlock, had managed the estate for them for several years, mostly from afar, as an absentee landlord. Lucas had stepped into the breach by the age of twelve or so, taking over the reins at an early age. Now the brothers were as close as brothers could be, although as different in nature as night and day.
For Lucas managed not just the estate, but the family. Jack knew that a great burden had been lifted from his brother’s shoulders when their sisters had fallen in love and married. Now Lucas spent most of his time in London—or on the continent.
“How are you?” Lucas asked.
Jack smiled. “Do you need to even ask?”
“Now that is the brother I know so well. Why were you glowering at the crowd?” Lucas led him across the room and into a private back room.
Jack debated telling him a bit about the Countess D’Orsay, but then he saw Sebastian Warlock standing facing the fireplace, his back to them. As usual, their uncle wore a black velvet coat and dark brown breeches. As Lucas closed the door, the prime minister’s spymaster turned. “You are rarely late.” His glance was skewering.
“Yes, I am fine, thank you for asking,” Jack returned.
“I imagine that he is late because it is difficult traveling about the country with a bounty on one’s head,” Lucas said, pulling out a chair from the table, which seated four. A fire blazed in the hearth. Bread, cheese, ale and whiskey were on the table.
“Your brother harps like a woman when he is concerned,” Warlock said. “And he is always concerned about you. However, that bounty is the perfect cover.”
“It is the perfect cover,” Jack agreed. Lucas specialized in extracting émigrés and agents from the enemy’s hands and lands. He was a patriot and a Tory, so his having become involved in the war was perfectly natural and Warlock had known it when he recruited him.
Jack had been a different story. For while Jack occasionally moved such human cargo for his brother or another one of Warlock’s agents, Warlock was more interested in receiving the information Jack ferried across the Channel. A great many smugglers moved information along with their cargo across the Channel. Most Cornish smugglers were French spies, however. Jack found it amusing to play such games, and he knew Warlock had known he would think so when he had first approached him some years ago.
“I may have been briefly deluded by such an argument nine or ten months ago,” Lucas said, “but I am not deluded now. It is a very dangerous game. I do not like it. Sebastian, you are going to get my brother killed.”
“You know I did not place that bounty on his head. However, my first rule is to exploit opportunity, and that bounty has provided us with vast opportunity. Were you delayed?” Warlock asked Jack.
Jack took the proffered seat. “I was delayed—but not by the bounty.” He decided to smirk, as if he had spent the night in Evelyn’s arms. And he sobered. He could have seduced her, and maybe, he should have done so. But then he would probably be halfway to France as her errand boy.
Lucas rolled his eyes and poured Jack a scotch before sitting down with him. Warlock smiled and took a seat. He was an
attractive man, but unlike his nephews, he was dark, with a somewhat brooding air. In his late thirties or early forties, he had the reputation of being a recluse. The world thought him a rather impoverished and boorish nobleman. It was wrong. In spite of his reputation, he did not lack for the ladies’ attentions.
“What do you have for me?” Warlock asked bluntly.
“I have it on very good authority that Spain intends to leave the Coalition,” Jack said.
A shocked silence greeted his words. But the war had not been going well for Britain and her Allies; France had recently conquered Amsterdam and annexed the Netherlands. Holland was now the Batavian Republic. There had been a number of French victories since the Allies’ terrible defeat at Fleurus, last June.
“You are confirming a rumor that I have already heard,” Warlock said grimly. “Now Pitt will have to seriously press Spain, before we lose her.”
Jack shrugged. He was not interested in the politics of war.
“What of La Vendée?” Lucas asked.
Jack looked at Lucas, meeting his glance. Their sister Julianne had married the Earl of Bedford in 1793. He had been a royalist supporter, and actively involved in the La Vendée uprising against the revolution. Unfortunately, the rebels had been crushed that summer, but fortunately, Dominic Paget had made his way home to Julianne, surviving a great massacre. But La Vendée had been rising again. The Loire countryside was filled with peasants, clergy and noblemen who remained furious over the execution of the king, and the forced secularization of the church.
In the Loire, the rebels were led by a young aristocrat, Georges Cadoudal. “He claims he now has twelve thousand troops, and that there will be more by summer. And once again, his question is, when? When will Britain invade Brittanny?” Jack said calmly. But as he spoke, he recalled Cadoudal’s desperation and fury.
“Windham has yet to finalize the plans,” Warlock said. “We only have a thousand émigré troops amassed for an invasion of Brittany, but someone has suggested we use our French prisoners of war, and if we do, we will have about four thousand troops in sum.”
“At least we know they can fight,” Jack joked.
Lucas smiled a little, the tension inherent in such a discussion relieved.
“There must be a timeline, Sebastian,” Lucas said. “We all know that General Hoche has already sent a great number of rebels into hiding. We lost La Vendée once. Surely we will not fail the rebels there again.” Lucas was grim.
Jack knew he was thinking of their sister Julianne. When La Vendée had gone down in flames, her husband had lost his mother’s family estates. His heart had been broken—and so had hers.
“There are many issues, but I am trying to convince Windham and Pitt to invade Quiberon Bay in June,” Warlock said. “And you may relay that to Cadoudal.”
Jack was glad he had some news to convey, and news that might reassure the rebel. Warlock stood and looked at Lucas. “I assume you wish to spend a few more moments with your brother. I must get back to London.”
“I do not mind riding back the way I came,” Lucas said.
“Keep me apprised,” Warlock said to Jack before leaving.
Lucas leaned forward. “How difficult was it for you to contact Cadoudal?”
“Hoche’s interest in La Vendée has made it more difficult than it was,” Jack said. “But we have a prearranged means of communication—and it is in code. You worry like a mother hen.”
“If I don’t worry about you, who will?” Lucas said darkly. “And I wasn’t jesting—I am damned tired of that bounty. Every day, your life is at risk. And the risk is even greater when you are at sea.” He leaned forward. “Captain Barrow is gunning for you. He was bragging the other night at an affair at Penrose’s home.”
Barrow had quite the reputation, but Jack was amused, and he shrugged. “I welcome the gauntlet.”
“Will you ever take life seriously?” Lucas demanded. “Everyone misses you—everyone is worried about you—it isn’t just I.”
Jack felt himself soften. The truth was, he missed his sisters, very much.
“Amelia is about to have her first child.”
“The babe is due in May.”
“That’s right,” Lucas said. “But she looks like she is about to have the child at any time. You have to see her, Jack.” Then he smiled. “She is so happy. She is a wonderful mother and she is so in love with Grenville.”
Jack laughed, but he was thrilled for his sister, whom he had assumed would remain a spinster, but who was not just married, but a stepmother to three children, with her own on the way. “As long as he is loyal and true.”
“He remains besotted,” Lucas said, and both brothers finally laughed. Their sister was such a serious woman, and Grenville had been a catch. It was inexplicable, really.
Jack realized he looked forward to a long-overdue family reunion. “Tell Amelia I will come to see her as soon as I can.” He almost wished that he could simply ride back to London with his brother, and call on Amelia now. But the war had changed everyone’s life, including his. These were dark, dangerous times.
Evelyn D’Orsay’s pale, beautiful image came to mind. He tensed. Damn it, why couldn’t he dismiss her from his thoughts?
“What’s wrong?” Lucas asked.
“You will be pleased to know that I have turned down a beautiful damsel in distress—that I have decided not to risk my life for a woman seeking to reclaim her family’s fortune.” And he was careful to sound mocking, when he did not quite feel that way.
“Oh, ho. Have you been rejected?” Lucas was incredulous. “You sound very put out.”
“I have never been rejected!” he exclaimed. “It is incredible that her wealthy husband left her so destitute, but I have no time now to play the knight in shining armor to save her.”
Lucas laughed, standing. “You are in a twist because of a woman! This is rich! Are you certain she did not reject you? And whom, pray tell, are we discussing?”
“I rejected her,” Jack said firmly. But suddenly he recalled the way he had left Roselynd—and how shocked and hurt she had been. “We are discussing the Countess D’Orsay. And Lucas? I am not interested in becoming ensnared.” He added, “No matter how beautiful and desperate she is.”
“Since when have you ever been ensnared by a woman?” Lucas asked, surprised.
Jack looked grimly at him. Maybe it was time to be honest, not with his brother, but with himself. “I got her out of France four years ago, with her husband and her daughter. And the problem is that I could not forget her then, and I am afraid I cannot forget her now.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THE BLACK BRIAR Inn was very busy; every table was full. It was Friday afternoon, so apparently a great many of the nearby village men had stopped by for a mug of ale. The conversation was loud and raucous. Tobacco wafted in the air.
Evelyn shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She did not care for this crowd, or the man she had come to meet. He was a very big, dark man in a striped jersey, a vest over that. The vest revealed the pistol he wore, as well as the dagger. His black trousers were tucked into a seaman’s boots. He was unshaven, wore a cuff earring in one ear, and one of his front teeth was black.
He also smelled, and not of the sea. She did not think he had bathed in a month.
Several days had passed since her heated encounter with Jack Greystone. She was still in some disbelief—both over her having kissed him, and his having refused her. What had she been thinking? How had she acted as she had, when she was in mourning? How could he have been so uncaring? So indifferent to her cause? And he had accused her of being dangerous! She would never understand what he had meant by that.
And to think that, for all these years, she had secretly thought of Greystone as a hero!
But she was hurt by his rejection, just as she was hurt by how he had judged her. It did not seem fair, yet she knew, firsthand, that life was so rarely fair.
Determined to move on, as she must do for her daughter�
��s sake, she had since toured the tin mine. And she had been shocked to see how run-down the mine and warehouse were. The new manager wanted to discuss repairing the facilities. He believed they were not shipping enough ore because they were not extracting enough tin. She did not even have to ask to know that repairing anything would be costly, too costly, as far as she was concerned. And when she had asked the previous manager’s opinion, he did not agree that there had been any kind of theft in the mining operations.
How could she be in this position now? She should be with her daughter, teaching her to read and write, to dance, play the piano and sew. But they did not even own a piano now, and instead, she was at the Black Briar Inn, about to discuss a very dangerous proposition with yet another smuggler—this one frightening in appearance.
She had gone to Henri’s grave every day, bringing fresh flowers. Instead of missing him, she was angry.
But she was even angrier with Greystone.
Her pondering was interrupted. “So ye wish for me to run to France and bring back yer husband’s chest,” Ed Whyte said, grinning. He seemed to like the idea.
Evelyn inhaled and focused on the man she was seated with. It hadn’t taken her very long to decide to find another smuggler to hire—the fact that she could not count on the mine for revenues had made the choice for her—and John Trim had given her several names. But Trim hadn’t been thrilled to suggest either Whyte or his associates. “They’re a rough bunch, my lady,” he had said. “And no great lady should consort with the likes of Whyte and his cronies.”
Evelyn hadn’t explained why she needed to interview smugglers other than Greystone, nor had she explained that she had no choice. But now, she was almost regretting her decision. Whyte was so scurrilous in appearance, with his blackened teeth, foul odor and lewd gaze, that he made Greystone seem like a knight in shining armor in comparison.