An Affair with a Spare

by Shana Galen

  She didn’t know if his words had been intended to distract her, to add levity to what he must see was a distressing moment, but she couldn’t help but give him a wobbly smile when she pictured hordes of women swooning whenever he walked by, in the hopes he might catch them.

  “You have a hard life, Mr. Beaumont.”

  He seated her on the cold stone bench. “Some days I wonder how I manage to crawl out of bed.” He winked. “Of course, it’s not usually my own bed.”

  “You’re terrible.”

  “I am. Tell me, what has you so shaken?”

  She crumpled the letter in her hand. “I cannot.”

  “If you can’t say it, give it to me. I’ll read it and—”

  “No!” She clutched the letter close to her chest. “You cannot read it. You cannot help me.”

  He sat down beside her, his thigh brushing hers. His violet eyes met hers. “You would be surprised what I can do.” The way he looked at her, the way he sounded…she almost believed him. She wanted to believe him. She couldn’t do this alone anymore. She didn’t even know how to proceed. Lady Ravensgate was not her friend. She worked with the enemy. Perhaps they had threatened her or perhaps she was sympathetic to the Bourbon cause. Whatever the reason, Collette could not trust her with this. She strongly suspected Lady Ravensgate had orders to slit her throat if Collette failed in her mission.

  “Let me help you,” Beaumont said.

  Collette’s hand loosened on the letter.

  “Have I given you any reason not to trust me?”

  “You fought in the war against Napoleon.”

  “That’s right. And I was decorated too. A hero.” He shrugged, his expression sheepish, as though he did not like to admit he had ever done anything selfless. “Whatever this is, it pales in comparison with the missions I was given and successfully completed.”

  A tiny spark of hope flared in her. Could he really help her? Could she risk her life and her father’s by placing them in his hands? “But your loyalties.” He was a soldier, the son of an earl, and had served under Draven. Who was to say he wouldn’t take what he learned straight to the king and the government?

  “My loyalties are to England,” Beaumont said carefully. “But I don’t see the world in black and white. I would never betray a friend.”

  Collette looked at the letter in her hand and then at Beaumont. She didn’t have to confide in him, and she didn’t have to trust him. It was a risk either way. Her father would die in a Bourbon prison or she would be hanged by the British government. But maybe, just maybe, if she confessed to Beaumont, she and her father would live.

  She put her hand in his, then pulled it away, leaving the letter on his palm. He stared at her, then opened the letter and read. He looked up at her, then read again. “Does this say what I think it says?”

  “That I am the daughter of Napoleon’s notorious assassin Fortier?”

  “Yes. And does the prison warden’s request for money for this sick friend of yours and your presence here mean what I think it means?”

  “That I am in England spying? Is that what you believe it implies?”

  “More or less.”

  “Then yes.”

  He took a breath and looked into the distance, where the dying light cut through the foliage, making strange but wonderful patterns on the grass. “This puts us in a precarious position.”

  “Us?”

  “If I’m to help you, yes. Us.”

  She clutched his hands, her heart suddenly a thousand pounds lighter. “Then you will help me? You won’t turn me in?”

  “I’ll help you.”

  She narrowed her eyes. She knew that pause, knew a condition was coming. “If?”

  “If you tell me everything.”

  Now it was her turn to pause. If she told him everything, she would doom herself if he decided to turn on her. But what other choice did she have? She had to trust him. She had to believe he truly was a hero.

  “It started during the revolution,” she said. “Or so I’m told. I was too young to remember or to know what was happening.”

  Beaumont lifted a finger and placed it delicately over her lips. She blinked at him in surprise. “Not here. Not now. Your…guardian will be looking for you, and there are too many people nearby who might overhear.”

  “Then when?” she whispered.

  “I’ll come for you tonight.”

  “How? Lady Ravensgate won’t let us be alone together.”

  “What time does she retire?”

  “If we are at home, she goes to her bedchamber at ten or eleven.”

  “Then wait for me in the garden at midnight.”

  “How shall I manage to sneak out to the garden without being seen?”

  He grinned at her. “You’re a spy, Mademoiselle Fortier. Figure it out.”

  * * *

  Rafe had spent many hours waiting for rendezvous with women. At one point, years ago, he’d added up all of the hours he could remember, and it had amounted to several days. So it came as a surprise to him that his gut clenched and his throat was dry while he waited for Collette Fortier. This should have been rote and tedious. Instead, he felt like a giddy lad of sixteen.

  This wasn’t about bedsport. He knew that. This was a mission. This was the sovereignty of his country. This was his plan coming to fruition. He had lured Fortier’s daughter without touching her, kissing her, or whispering nonsense into her ear. He wouldn’t need do any of that tonight.

  But he wanted to.

  He’d have her all alone, and God help him, he wanted to touch her and kiss her and whisper words that would make her blush. He wanted to do things to her that would make her cheeks pink with mortification and pleasure. After the war, he’d been so weary of seduction. He’d come home and never wanted to see another woman again.

  That wasn’t quite true. He didn’t mind seeing them. He just didn’t want the effort of interacting with them for any length of time. Rafe found that women always tended to want more than he could give, and when he considered giving more, he worried what would happen when the woman grew tired of him. Then his chest would tighten and his stomach roiled. He’d end the relationship before the woman could leave him.

  Rafe had begun to doubt whether he would ever meet any woman who managed to secure his notice for more than an evening.

  But he’d been wrong. Collette Fortier had caught it and kept it. She might have caught it with her beauty alone—the lush body, the pretty blushes, the tantalizing smiles. But she’d kept his attention because, unlike other women, she presented a challenge. She didn’t flutter her lashes. She didn’t compliment him. He sometimes wondered if she even found him attractive. She was clever enough to pass through society without ever causing even so much as a whisper that she was a French spy. And she was skilled enough to manage Lady Ravensgate, the men she spied for, and, apparently, him. And now she’d put her trust in him, and that was the most seductive quality of all.

  As he watched, the servants’ door to the garden opened, and a figure in a dark cape emerged. The hood of the cape was up, and Rafe did not immediately step out of his hiding place in the shadows of a large tree. He wanted to be certain before he moved. The figure looked this way and that and then hissed out a few words. “Mr. Beaumont?”

  He stepped forward, letting her see him before he stepped back again. Making barely a sound, she crossed the distance between them and joined him behind the tree.

  “I was afraid you would not come.” Her voice was breathless, leading him to wonder what she might sound like in the throes of passion.

  “As you see, your fears were unfounded. You must come with me.”

  “What?” She tensed. They were standing so close he could feel her body go rigid.

  “We can’t talk here. It’s cold and I don’t relish standing outside all night. I’ll
take you home with me.”

  “I can’t go home with you!”

  He chuckled. “Still worried about your reputation? I would have thought that was the furthest thing from your mind tonight. I promise not to ravish you. I may, however, give you a glass of wine and fruit and cheese. I’ll wager you didn’t manage to eat anything tonight.”

  Her silence spoke for itself.

  “There will be a fire. And privacy. I’ve dismissed my staff. We’ll be all alone.”

  “That doesn’t reassure me.”

  “It shouldn’t, but I give you my word I will not take advantage of you.”

  She let out a sigh of relief.

  “Unless you want me to.”

  “I won’t.”

  Oh, didn’t she know it was dangerous to give him a challenge?

  He led her to the hackney he’d paid to wait at the corner a block away and climbed into the carriage behind her. She’d raised her hood again, and Rafe had donned a hat and kept his face down. If someone had been watching them, they might have been able to deduce their identities, but no one passing by would know who they were.

  They sat in silence during the short ride to St. James’s Square, and then Rafe knocked on the roof and the jarvey pulled to the side of the street. Rafe paid him and took her arm, leading her into his building, up the stairs, and into his flat. He’d asked his valet to stay until midnight, sweeping away any women who might stalk him, and he was pleased to find the building quiet and his path to the flat uninterrupted. Inside, all was as he’d ordered. The fire roared in the hearth. In the front room, grapes and cheese had been set on a platter with a bottle of wine beside them. The atmosphere was cozy and quiet, just as he’d wanted it.

  He locked the door behind her, then held out a hand for her cape. “Oh. You needn’t—”

  He waved his fingers impatiently. He was not about to allow her to wear her cape all evening. Finally, she untied the ribbons and slid it from her shoulders. Beneath, she wore a deep-red dress with a tightly fitted bodice and sleeves. No wonder she’d wanted to keep the cape on. Rafe had to swallow at the sight of all the creamy flesh on display. But he forced himself to hang her cape on the rack and to remove his own greatcoat and do the same. His eyes, disobedient as they were, attempted to stray back to the half-moons of her plump breasts, but he resisted. It took damn near all the willpower he possessed to resist, but he did it. He’d faced more difficult assignments.

  “I know this is a ball gown,” she said. “It’s the darkest color I have and doesn’t have any ornamentation that would catch the light. I didn’t want anyone to see me.”

  “Wise choice.” He led her to the couch beside the tray of food and poured her a glass of wine. Ordinarily he would have wondered at such a plain ball gown, but not when he saw it on her. She didn’t need any ornamentation. Her body was ornament enough to attract the eye.

  After handing her the wine, he poured himself a glass, then sat in the chair beside her. He plucked a green grape from the tray and slid it between his teeth. He watched as her eyes widened slightly. “Isn’t this more civilized than the back of the garden?”

  “Yes.” She sipped her wine, downing half of it before she realized and lowered it from her lips. Red lips, like the gown. But he couldn’t focus on those right now. He had to remember his purpose.

  “We’re here so I can help you,” he said. “But I can’t help you if you don’t confide in me.”

  “And you’ll forgive me if I want some assurances before I confide at all.”

  Now this was an interesting twist. She’d obviously been thinking since the garden party this afternoon. She wanted assurances. He liked the way her shoulders straightened, the way she lifted her chin. It reminded him of that strong woman he’d seen in his box at Drury Lane.

  “Of course. Name them.”

  “What I tell you tonight remains between the two of us. You must swear to tell no one.”

  He sipped his wine. It was sweet and cold and tingled on the tongue. “You know I can’t promise that. But”—he held up a hand—“I will promise that I will only reveal our discussions if I feel I have no other option. For example, if the sovereignty of the country is at stake or if a man’s or woman’s life is in jeopardy.”

  She sipped her wine again, the line between her eyes deepening.

  “That’s the best I can give you on that account. What other assurances do you want?”

  “That you won’t use this information against me.”

  “Against you? I said I was here to help.” But then he caught the flush on her face and understood what she was not saying. “Oh, I see. You think I might blackmail you. I might force you to sleep with me so I will keep my silence.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Rafe plucked the empty glass from her fingers. “Collette— May I call you Collette?”

  “I suppose there’s no point in remaining formal.”

  “Collette, I can promise you that if I wanted you in my bed, I would not need to blackmail you to get you there. You’d go quite willingly.”

  Now her flush deepened. Rafe gave her a few minutes to recover while he refilled her glass and selected fruit and cheese for her. “You had better eat something or this wine will go straight to your head.”

  She took the plate he offered, ate a grape, and then sipped her wine. “This is excellent wine.”

  He smiled. “It’s French.”

  * * *

  She took another sip, hoping the wine would slake her thirst. Her throat was so dry and her tongue felt too big for her mouth. He sat across from her, in his well-appointed flat with its plush carpets and soft furnishings and a blazing fire. The room would have been perfectly comfortable if Beaumont hadn’t been occupying it. Nothing about him made her comfortable. He seemed to fit among the lushness of this flat and among the glittering ton. She didn’t belong in his world, and she would have to confess exactly how little she belonged in another moment.

  He was a patient man. He didn’t rush her. He merely sipped his wine and watched her. He didn’t gulp the crisp liquid down. He savored it. He savored the grapes as well, placing one between his lips and drawing it slowly into his mouth. Collette could not decide if he was effortlessly seductive or if he was trying to make her blush, trying to steer her thoughts to…places she could not allow herself to go.

  Finally, she took a breath. She’d held off long enough. She would tell him of her dilemma because she had no other choice and because she needed help. She was fully aware she might be making the biggest mistake of her life. If that was the case, then she would make it boldly and suffer the consequences.

  “As I said before, it began during the revolution. I was born in the midst of that bloody time, just as the Reign of Terror gripped the country. My father had been a blacksmith. I know that word conjures images of sweaty men with bare, dirty arms, but my father created masterpieces for the upper classes. When the revolution came, he was suspect because of his close ties with the ancien régime. Fortunately, or perhaps not so fortunately, Robespierre liked my father’s work. He hired him to create beautiful pieces for the revolutionary government.

  “I remember some of those pieces. I remember watching him create them and marveling at how talented my papa was. He was strong and kind, and I knew he loved us. Some weeks, he worked so long and so hard I would not see him for days. And when he finally emerged from the forge, he would bring me some beautiful creation, a butterfly or a metal flower. He was a good man, a loving man.”

  Beaumont had set down his glass, his violet eyes focused on her, but she could see he struggled to hold back questions.

  “And you are wondering how a blacksmith became an assassin for Napoleon.”

  That was how everyone saw her father. No one knew him like she did—the loving father who told her stories and who listened to her as though she were the most interesting
person in the world. He’d sat up with her when she was ill. He’d played games with her when she was lonely. He’d taught her to read and climb trees and spot the constellations. There was not a better father in all the world.

  Rafe sat back. “I am prepared to let you tell the story as you like. But I spent years on the Continent, and much of that time was in France, even in Paris. I know who your father is and what he did.”

  She nodded, then sipped her wine again. “You’re not wrong about him. I am not here to argue that he was not an assassin, but I want you to understand my father was not only an assassin. He was a man, a husband, and a father. He loved us and he would have done anything for us.” Her voice broke as she said it because she wished she could have one of those days back again. Just one. One last chance to bask in the love of her mother and the pride of her father.

  “And then Robespierre went to the guillotine. Again, I was too young to remember any of that, but the loss of Robespierre was devastating for our family. My father no longer had a benefactor, and because he was once again associated with the enemy of the people, our family was under suspicion again. My father still had loyal customers, but his business dwindled to a mere trickle. I often went to bed hungry, and I suspect if I was hungry, my mother and father ate nothing.”

  Collette closed her eyes, remembering the gnawing in her belly as she’d lain in her small bed, the soft blankets tucked securely around her. She hadn’t really been scared, hadn’t understood that hunger meant poverty and poverty could mean death, until death came for her mother.

  “My mother became ill,” she said, keeping her voice steady and unemotional. “I don’t know what was wrong with her. No one ever told me, but the medicines she needed were very expensive. My aunt came to stay with us, to care for me and my mother, and I remember hearing her berate my father for failing to provide for his family. The next day, my father left early in the morning and did not return until late. I saw him across the breakfast table the next morning, and at first, I was so giddy at the sight of bread and porridge that I did not notice.” She paused so long Beaumont leaned forward.