Surrender (The Spymaster's Men)

by Brenda Joyce

  And the moment she had stepped through the heavy ebony front doors, she had found herself in an entry hall with stone floors, fine furniture and oil paintings in gilded frames.

  As a pair of servants had rushed to greet them, Evelyn had looked around—at a home as luxuriously furnished as the toniest residence in London. She had been amazed.

  Her bedroom was no exception. The walls were covered in a blue-and-white fabric, as was the four-poster bed. The mantel over the fireplace was white plaster, sculpted with vines and flowers, and a blue-and-white silk sofa faced it. A sterling tray was on the table before the couch, laden with small sandwiches and tea.

  Evelyn now glanced at the small garden, which lay between the tower and the house. It was mid-April, and a gardener was tending new pink and purple blooms.

  Just then, she felt as if she were the guest in a gentleman’s country home.

  Evelyn turned from the window, aware of her heart racing. She had been on edge ever since accepting Jack’s invitation. She had taken a long hot bath, and a maid had helped her dress. The gray gown she now wore was lighter in color than the dress she’d worn previously, with a slightly lower neckline, enough to reveal her pearls. It made her feel dressed for supper—and as if she were not in mourning.

  Evelyn went to the mirror and pinched herself—because she was very much in mourning, and she meant to stay that way. She did not know why she felt as if she were young and pretty, indefatigable, really, and about to attend a supper party—with a handsome beau.

  And while Jack might not be a suitor, she did look young and pretty. In spite of not having slept for most of two days, her eyes sparkled. Her cheeks were pink. Her complexion was flawless. She no longer appeared haggard, and as if she bore the world’s weight upon her shoulders. There was almost no explanation as to why she should appear so animated and so bright.

  But there was a reason—her host. He was consuming her thoughts. In another moment, she would go downstairs to dine with him—and she could not wait. She felt like a debutante of sixteen, not a widow of almost twenty-five.

  Had she ever been this excited to share supper with Henri? There had been anticipation, of course there had—he had been such a skilled suitor—but it simply hadn’t been like this.

  The maid, Alice, had helped Evelyn put up her hair loosely, but now, Evelyn tugged a few long strands down.

  “Is there anything else that you need, madame?”

  Evelyn faced the middle-aged woman. “I am fine, Alice, and thank you for your help.”

  “You are beautiful,” she said, beaming. “And you will certainly turn the captain’s head.”

  “I am in mourning,” Evelyn said, but it sounded like a question to her own ears.

  “Yes, I heard. But you will still turn his head.... And we do not follow any rules here.”

  Last night, Evelyn had been on board’s Jack’s ship, while the French navy had pursued them. What if they had been caught? Or, what if there had been a violent gun battle? Jack was in France every week, or so she believed. The British navy wished to capture him, and apparently, so did the French. He risked his life on a near-daily basis. Of course they did not adhere to the social graces on Looe Island.

  She had always felt it terribly important to attempt to maintain decorum, to live with self-respect and dignity, to adhere to society’s dictums. Yet she had witnessed the violence of the French Revolution; she had been a prisoner of the people while in Paris; she was lucky to be out of France—she was lucky to be alive. And what about all the years she had spent being a nursemaid to her ill husband? In that moment, it crossed her mind that she wouldn’t mind bending the rules—or even ignoring them—for a while.

  She straightened. Having such thoughts was dangerous, especially now. And she wondered what Jack was thinking, as he waited for her to join him.

  His invitation had been a casual one. Or had it?

  He might have the reputation of being a ladies’ man, but Evelyn dismissed it. In truth, he had treated her with respect, even when they had gotten off to a very rocky start. He was not half as notorious as the gossips claimed. Therefore, he probably wasn’t wondering about this evening at all. His invitation had probably been as casual and straightforward as it had seemed—which was perfect, as she had no wish to repeat the other evening’s disastrous encounter. She wished to avoid rocking the boat.

  “Alice? How long have you been employed by the captain?” Evelyn asked as Alice started to leave.

  She paused, her eyes widening. “I have been here for the past two and a half years, madame.”

  “You must know him well, then.”

  The maid replied with some surprise, “He is a good employer.”

  “And he is a very brave and skilled seaman.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “This house is so beautiful. Is he here often?”

  “Often enough.”

  “I would be lonely if I lived here, so far removed from everything and everyone,” she said. “It must be lonely, living here alone, on an island.”

  Alice shrugged. “Madame, my husband is the gardener, and our children live in Looe,” she said, referring to the mainland village. “So we are not lonely—we feel fortunate to have this employment.”

  “Yes, but that isn’t quite what I meant. I am not sure how Mr. Greystone manages, living here, by himself.” Evelyn now smiled, as she waited for Alice’s answer.

  Alice hesitated. “You will have to ask him, madame.”

  Evelyn smiled again, realizing that the maid would not gossip about Jack. She supposed she had all evening to find out how he felt about living on the island—among other things. She wondered how he felt about her now, being as they had formed a truce.

  She gave herself a last glance in the mirror.

  “He will think you very beautiful, my lady, and in the firelight, the gown looks silver,” Alice said softly. “It is a wonderful color for you. You look like a princess.”

  “Am I terribly obvious?” Evelyn asked, blushing.

  “Yes, but he is very handsome and we all think so.” She smiled, and Evelyn thought she was referring to women in general. “Have no fear. I do not know of his having entertained any ladies here.” Alice nodded and left.

  Evelyn followed, lost in her own thoughts. Did that mean that he didn’t entertain? Or that the only women he had brought to Looe Island were of a different ilk? She was almost certain the latter was the case.

  Evelyn went downstairs, faltering as she passed the closed door to the suite of rooms that belonged to him. She was very curious as to what his private apartments were like, but she was not going to find that out.

  She found her host in the salon, a glass of red wine in hand. Evelyn faltered as she saw him. Her heart slammed, and she lost her breath.

  Jack was dressed formally for evening, with the single exception that he was not wearing a wig. Still, he had shaven, and his hair was pulled back into a perfectly arranged queue, and tied with a black ribbon. He was clad in a chocolate-brown velvet coat, with a great deal of black-and-gold embroidery. Lace frothed from the collar of his shirt and cascaded from the sleeves. His breeches were almost as dark, but his stockings were pale white. His black patent shoes were buckled, and a dark red ring, perhaps a ruby, glinted from one finger.

  He did not look like a smuggler or an outlaw now. He appeared to be an elegant aristocrat, and a very handsome one at that. Just then, it was terribly easy to recall how wonderful and maddening it was to be in his arms.

  “You are staring,” he said softly. “I hope you do not mind. I have helped myself to a drink before your joining me.”

  “Of course I do not mind.”

  His gaze moved slowly down her silvery gray dress. “I approve. You have never looked lovelier.”

  She felt her heart slam. “And I did not realize you meant to attire so formally tonight.” But that wasn’t what she wanted to say—she wanted to ask him if he was dressing up for her. He was dressed like a suitor, and h
e was as beautiful as a mythological Greek god. “Dressing up suits you.” She managed a composed smile.

  “I have attended the occasional London supper party.” He smiled in return. “Red or white?”

  She entered the gold-and-white salon, a large room with a great many oversize windows that looked out onto his gardens. All the furniture was gilded, as were the two chandeliers overhead. “I will have whatever you are having.”

  He walked over to a magnificent sideboard and poured a glass of red wine, which he then handed to her. “I hope I haven’t rushed you.”

  She took the wineglass, but did not sip. She was seeing such a different side of him, she thought. “Where is the captain of the Sea Wolf?” she asked.

  He laughed. “Right here. I am capable of good manners, Countess.” His smile faded as he took her arm and they strolled from the salon. “But of course, you would not realize that, considering how I have acted since we first met.”

  She halted, as did he. “You have been the perfect gentleman!” She realized she sounded fierce.

  “I have behaved horribly—and we both know it. But I am appreciative of the fact that I am somehow forgiven. Shall we?”

  His smile was the male equivalent of a sea siren’s, she thought, as her insides lurched in response. It was charming and seductive—impossible to resist. Had she been fooling herself to think that this invitation was casual and innocent?

  “Do my accommodations satisfy you? Is there anything you need?” he asked, now speaking softly.

  She shivered in response to his tone. “Your home is beautiful. I do not think I am lacking for anything.”

  “I like beauty,” he said softly but firmly. “But that, of course, you know.”

  She met his gaze, stumbling; he caught her around her waist, smiling. Her heart pounding, Evelyn slowly detached herself from his embrace. “You flatter me far too much.”

  “That is not possible.” As he spoke, his unwavering attention intensified. “But I am beginning to believe that you do not have a clue as to your effect upon the male gender.”

  Evelyn wet her lips, but could not reply. He gestured at the dining room.

  The two doors to the room were open. Evelyn faced a table that could seat twelve, set with gold-rimmed plates, gold dinnerware and sparkling crystal. Several tall gold candlesticks held burning golden tapers. The beautifully adorned table was set for two.

  She walked inside, Jack following. The two place settings were kitty-corner, his at the head of the table. He held her chair out for her. Evelyn thanked him and sat down.

  As he took his seat adjacent hers, she said, “You have gone to a great deal of trouble, furnishing this house.” Her tone was husky and she cleared her throat.

  “Yes, I have. I prefer to live in a privileged manner, now that I can.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Greystone Manor is barely furnished. It is not the impoverished estate everyone thinks, but it is hardly a wealthy one. And Lucas is a very frugal and serious man. His decision has been to put as much of the family fortune away as is possible—until recently, he did not know that Julianne or Amelia would ever marry, much less well. He was determined to set aside what wealth he could for their futures, and that is exactly what he did. I like the finer things in life, Evelyn, but I grew up with only the bare necessities. I enjoy having all of this.” He gestured at the room.

  Servants in livery appeared. Plates filled with salmon were set down before them. “Is that why you have chosen the life of a smuggler?”

  He smiled with amusement. “The sea is my true love, Evelyn.”

  “The sea—or adventure?”

  He laughed. “Both. I could never live as my brother does. Boredom would destroy me. And I do like reaping the rewards of the free trade.”

  He would never be a gentleman farmer, a landlord or some such expected thing, she thought. “I do not blame you. Everyone prefers luxury to subsistence.”

  His gaze sobered. “In a way, our lives have taken opposite courses, have they not?”

  She thought about how much she and Henri had had before the revolution. “I was fortunate to marry Henri. Now I have been returned to less fortunate circumstances.” She shrugged, as if indifferent. “You, however, have earned a life of luxury.”

  “And you are not looking down your nose at me.” Then he became serious. “One never knows what life has in store. You might have another change of fortune—I should rather expect it.” He gestured at the cold poached salmon salad. “Please.”

  She wondered at his comment. He was so optimistic about her future, and not for the first time. Evelyn smiled, now ravenous, and took a bite. The salmon was delicious and for a moment, they both ate, rather determinedly, in silence. When she had devoured half of her plate, she sighed, set her utensils down and took a sip of wine. “That might be the best salmon I have ever had.”

  “I told you,” he said, “my chef is exceptional.”

  He resumed eating and she studied him, wondering at his tone, his searching looks. Did he think to seduce her after supper? Or was she the one consumed with illicit thoughts? Hadn’t he told her how beautiful he thought her—time and again? There was tension between them, she thought, and it was too much to ignore.

  And if he did make advances, could she really refuse? Did she even wish to?

  When he had finished his portion, and she declined finishing hers, their plates were removed.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” he said.

  She felt herself flush. “You seem to have every luxury here, when the island seems so desolate.”

  He stared at her, and she suspected he knew those had hardly been her thoughts. “It is desolate. And that is why so many pirates and smugglers have used the island as their home.”

  “Why is this island safe for them—for you?” she asked. “I would think it dangerous. You are isolated and so close to shore.”

  He leaned back in his chair, one large hand on the table, his fingers sprawled out casually there. “When a ship is approaching, we can see it. And we can run.” He smiled at her, now lounging very informally in his chair. He had finished his wine, and a servant promptly poured him another glass.

  In that moment, even so well dressed, he reminded her of a big panther sunning itself. His demeanor was changing, too. He was becoming more than relaxed, and his gaze was now trained steadily upon her.

  “I always have two lookouts on watch. No one can land here without my knowing it.”

  “Surely the authorities know you are here?”

  “The deed is not in my name.”

  Of course the deed was recorded to a friend or an alias. Otherwise the authorities would come looking for him. She thought about their recent voyage, taking a sip of her wine. “You hate running away.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You would have loved to have a gun battle with the French.”

  He slowly smiled. “I would have loved nothing more.” Then his stare became direct. His smile vanished. “Almost.”

  She met his gaze. Did that comment mean what she thought it did? And he was so serious now.

  He glanced away, suddenly drumming his fingers on the table, as if restless. “I do not mean to be rude,” he finally said. “I am appreciative of your being my guest. I am enjoying your company.”

  “You are not being rude.” But she was certain he had been thinking about the passion they had shared—and could still share. And because the silence was so tense now, she said, “Jack? I cannot understand why the French navy would purse you.”

  He toyed with his wineglass, and for a moment, she thought he would not answer her, just as he had avoided doing so on board his ship. “This is a time of war,” he finally said. “Everyone is suspect. There are places in France where I can pass easily enough, but at other times, I am scrutinized as all passersby who are not the French navy are.”

  She supposed that made some sense. “If you are risking your life to run the British blockade, tha
t isn’t fair.”

  He laughed without mirth. “Nothing is fair in a time of war, and when it suits me, I outrun the French blockades. Their navy is pitiful—and it is easy enough to do.”

  She suddenly recalled a remark made by Trevelyan—that he was a spy, perhaps for both sides. She lowered her eyes from his scrutiny, quickly picked up her wineglass and took a sip.

  “What is it?” he asked softly.

  She was not going to ruin the evening, she thought fiercely, by accusing him of being a spy. “Will this war ever end?”

  He gave her an odd look, clearly aware that she was changing the subject. “All wars end, sooner or later,” he said. “But the question is, who will triumph and who will be defeated?”

  More plates were set down in front of them, this time containing lamb shanks, potatoes and vegetables. Mouthwatering aromas of lamb roasted with thyme filled the room. The timing was perfect, as talk of war could ruin the evening. This time, they ate in silence for quite a while.

  When she was finished, incapable of taking another bite, she watched him. He finally set his utensils down and sighed. Then he looked at her and smiled.

  Her heart turned over, hard. Would she ever be immune to his smile? “Do you like living here?”

  “Is that a loaded question?”

  “Am I prying?” she asked. “I am curious. This house is lovely. But it reminds me of Roselynd, as there are no neighbors nearby, and the island is so barren—just like the Bodmin Moor.”

  “It is the perfect haven.”

  He hadn’t answered her question. “I would be lonely if I lived here,” she said. “It is lonely living at Roselynd, even with Aimee, Bette, Laurent and Adelaide.”

  He took a sip of wine. “I am not lonely, Evelyn.” His tone almost seemed warning. Then he smiled. “You do not like your wine? You have not even finished one glass.”

  He was changing the topic, she thought. “I love it, but I will become foxed on one glass, after all that has transpired, if I am not careful.”