by Ruth Axtell
He set the pole on a rack with all the others, the Scripture “be not unequally yoked with unbelievers” flitting through his mind. He had no idea what Lady Wexham’s spiritual beliefs were, but he had seen no evidence of her attending church while in London.
He knelt down to put away his fishhook in a box of tackle. Looking at an array of fishing lures, he stiffened when he heard a masculine voice just outside the door.
“I am watching her.”
The words were in French. Without thinking, Rees ducked lower, crouching behind a stack of crates.
The men’s footsteps sounded entering the room. “Céline Wexham? Do you think that is necessary?”
Rees’s heart began to pound.
“I don’t trust her.”
He tried to place the soft-spoken tone.
The other masculine voice protested. “But she is one of Louis’s favorites. She is Sophie’s daughter! There is no more loyal subject. No, this time you’ve let your suspicious nature run away with you.”
“We shall see.” The man’s tone remained cool.
Since their voices indicated they stood on the other side of the small room, Rees dared inch forward around the crates. The two gentlemen were facing a window.
Monsieur de la Roche. The other one, a short, stout man in a dark blue frock coat, he didn’t immediately recognize. He must be a visitor. Rees eased back behind the crates.
The shorter man spoke. “Has she done anything to warrant your distrust?”
“Perhaps. What I am certain of is we are reaching a critical time and must not allow any information to leak out. We cannot let anyone stand in our way. Many do not want to see the House of Bourbon reascend the throne.”
The other man sighed. “A pity the lovely Céline should prove a traitor to our cause.”
“Whether or not a pity, she must not be allowed to hinder it. I will continue watching her, and if she should prove detrimental, she will be stopped.”
The words sent a chill down Rees’s spine.
The men turned and left the room.
As the echoes of their footsteps faded, Rees eased back on his haunches, his heartbeat gradually easing.
What was Lady Wexham involved in? Didn’t she realize the danger?
An image of her flashed into his mind—her smiling face, those golden eyes alight with amusement as the sunlight shone on her chestnut locks.
His chest constricted at the thought of anything evil befalling her.
It couldn’t be possible.
He clenched his hands.
He couldn’t allow it.
Not only would he have to shadow her now to watch her movements.
He must shadow her to protect her.
12
Céline wandered through the salons, feeling restless after dinner. She entered the card room, her eyes scanning the various tables for her mother.
She felt an immediate sense of ease at the sight of Mr. MacKinnon standing a few feet behind her. Ever since she had asked him to look after her mother, her mother had left the tables at a decent hour.
“Ma chérie, what a lovely man your new butler is. Que beau! Que large! Que gracieux!” her mother had told her the day after meeting MacKinnon.
Céline forced a careless laugh at her mother’s raptures. “Yes, he cuts quite a handsome figure.”
“You must find a way to keep him when your old butler returns.” She wagged a finger at Céline. “Perhaps I can keep him on here.” She winked at her daughter. “If you would give me an allowance for a manservant.”
“I will gladly do so, but I fear MacKinnon is merely on loan to me. He has his own situation, which I believe he is quite satisfied with.” A position she feared had something to do with the Home Office.
Now, she observed the two. Her mother turned to say something to MacKinnon, and he bent toward her, nodding his head slightly, his demeanor looking as if he took everything she said with utmost absorption.
She must remember to do something for him for being so thoughtful to her mother. She mentally shook her head, reminding herself that he was no servant and likely would not be with her household long. The question was—who would have the upper hand when he left?
She approached her mother’s table, nodding to the company who greeted her cheerfully. Lastly, she glanced at MacKinnon, with a brief smile and nod.
Old Monsieur Villiers looked up from his hand. “Ma chère Céline, what do you think?”
She glanced at his cards. “Hm. Maman, you shall have to have a care.”
Her mother tossed her powdered curls. “Bah, he is bluffing. I know all his tricks.”
Céline moved to stand beside MacKinnon, knowing she mustn’t single him out any more than any of her servants, yet feeling drawn to him as an animal to a lure. “I hope this is not too tedious for you.”
“Not at all. Lady de Beaumont will play only a hand or two more and then ask me to promenade her on the terrace.”
“Thank goodness she is no longer playing faro.”
“Yes. She was persuaded to stick to quadrille with these fine gentlemen,” he murmured with an indication toward the pensioners seated at the table with her.
She dared glance at him under her lashes. “I am sure you are responsible for that. I can only offer you my deepest gratitude.”
He kept his eyes on the card players. “She was convinced of the healthful benefits of a promenade on the terrace before retiring.”
She swallowed a laugh at his acumen. “Let us hope the weather remains clear.”
“Yes.” His tone echoed the amusement in her own. “I have not yet thought what to do if it should rain.”
“Oh, there are miles of galleries you can stroll.”
He chuckled.
She quickly scanned the room to make sure no one had noticed the enjoyment they were exhibiting in their conversation. She caught sight of Monsieur de la Roche, who had looked up from his hand of cards across the room.
Quickly, she erased her smile and fixed her gaze on her mother. “I do thank you for watching out for my mother. You have eased my mind immensely.”
“It is my pleasure.” They kept their tones low as if by mutual consent.
Knowing she must soon excuse herself and move on, she nevertheless added, “My mother is figuring out a way to have you stay on at Hartwell when we leave.”
“I am perfectly happy where I am.”
At the Home Office or in her household? Despite her realization that it must be the former, she couldn’t help the gratification that spread through her at his simple words. Once again, she felt they were talking on two different levels. “That is what I told her,” she answered lightly, although her heart was thumping.
“Do you have any idea when you are returning to London?”
She glanced at him, but he continued looking forward. “Not as yet.” She moistened her lips. “Are you anxious to return to town?”
“I was merely enquiring”—he cleared his throat—“to be able to inform the servants—”
Was he feeling as nervous as she, as if they were both walking a tightrope yet neither would welcome the safety of the net below? With reluctance she took a step away from him. “Well, I shall not distract you any longer. I just wanted to thank you—for your patience with my mother.” She lifted her gaze to his. “Good evening.”
His gray eyes locked with hers and he nodded once. “There is no need . . . my lady.”
She inclined her head in response.
Assuming a lighthearted tone, she bid her mother and her cronies good night and moved to another table as if she hadn’t a care in the world. As she greeted another old lady, she allowed herself to search for Monsieur de la Roche.
He was playing to the trick. As if sensing her gaze, he looked up just as he laid down his card and lifted a brow. She nodded, forcing a stiff smile before turning away.
She left the card room, keeping her pace slow, though she felt more than one person’s attention directed toward her.
Later in the evening, she made her way to the terrace, telling herself it was not to catch a glimpse of MacKinnon accompanying her mother.
But there was no sight of him or her mother. They must have gone up. She shook aside her disappointment.
She walked the terrace’s wide perimeter. She stopped and chatted with the few individuals who still lingered there. It was almost midnight, so most had retired for the evening.
Alone again, she hugged herself, fighting disappointment as she leaned against the balustrade. The sculptures and clipped bushes were shadowy figures between the remaining torchlights.
“Céline?” The whisper was so low, she mistook it at first for the sound of the breeze against her ears. “Say nothing.” It was not her imagination. “Just listen.”
She stood as still as the statuary, not daring to gaze downward to where she thought the voice came from.
“Meet me at the temple of Apollo in one hour.”
She remained there several more minutes, but the voice came no more. Finally, she dared step away, wrapping her shawl more securely around herself to keep from shaking.
She spent the intervening hour in her room, alternately pacing and standing lost in thought, gazing out at the stars. Finally, slipping into a dark gown and shawl, she was ready.
“Be careful,” Valentine admonished her. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“Better not.” She gave a nervous laugh. “If I do not return within the hour, you know where I am. It is likely Roland, though I could not recognize the voice.”
Valentine planted a hand on her hip. “And if it is not?”
Pushing down her fears, Céline shrugged. “I shall soon see.”
Before Valentine could protest further, Céline exited the room. No one was about. She went quickly down the back stairs, checking behind her often to make sure she was not being observed or followed.
But the house was silent. She slipped out a side entrance. The night air felt cool against her skin. The gravel path beneath her slippers sounded loud to her ears, so she left it and walked alongside on the grass, using the light-colored gravel to help guide her way. Her slippers were soon wet with the dew.
As her eyes became accustomed to the dark, she was able to make her way more easily. There was a scant half-moon, so the night offered some illumination. She crossed the formal gardens, staying away from the path with its torchlight. The temple in question was situated high on a hill, offering a vista of the entire estate.
She continued glancing behind her but saw nothing. She doubted anyone was still up. There were only a few lights visible behind the curtained windows on the upper floors of the mansion. But most were dark, their inhabitants long since in bed.
Finally, she reached the temple with its domed roof and columns encircling it. Its white stonework shone like a beacon in the night.
Having half run the last portion, she was out of breath by the time she entered its arched doorway. She turned around, her eyes scanning the area, but nothing moved.
She was alone. She shivered, feeling vulnerable and exposed. The temple was surrounded by shrubbery, dark and menacing. She moved farther into the temple, debating whether she should wait outside, perhaps hide herself in the shrubbery. She was about to do so when a shadow detached itself from behind one of the slim columns and approached her.
Her heart pumping furiously, she waited, clutching her shawl tightly around herself.
When the man was close enough to identify, she almost collapsed with relief. “Roland.”
“Yes,” he said, in as low a whisper as he had used on the terrace. “I thought it best to come myself. We can trust no one.”
She nodded.
He took her by the arm and led her back outside to an area of shrubbery. “What can you tell me of things here?”
Quickly, she collected her thoughts and reported everything she’d heard since she’d arrived.
He nodded once or twice. When she ended, he said only, “Good.”
He took a step away. “Is that all?” she asked, feeling as if she were being abandoned.
“Yes. I shall convey your findings to France.” He suddenly reached up and squeezed her shoulder. “I will return in another few nights. Is there any evening activity planned, where everyone will be distracted?”
She thought quickly. “There is a masquerade three nights hence.”
“Perfect. I will meet you”—he pointed toward some shrubbery across the temple—“there by the highest yew. It’s better we stay out of sight that night. This same time.”
“Very well.”
When she turned to look, he was gone.
Rees stood behind a tree and watched as Lady Wexham left the shrubbery and made her way back to the house, almost running.
He continued watching to make sure no one else had followed her. Then he waited until sure her contact had gone. Slowly, he made his own way back to Hartwell House, his heart heavy.
At least de la Roche had not seen her. He felt a vast sense of relief at that. But for how long would she be able to elude him? She was playing a dangerous game. The British were suspicious of her, and now the royalist French as well.
Where would she be safe?
He caught himself.
Safe.
When had his objective gone from uncovering her clandestine activities to protecting her from her enemies?
Céline sat on a blanket on the grass, holding a parasol against the sun. A group of the émigrés was picnicking on the south lawn of Hartwell House.
“My lady, have some more champagne.” Monsieur de la Roche lifted the bottle and poured some into her glass. “It will put the bloom back in your cheek.”
She glanced at him. There was something about him that repulsed her. Perhaps the way there seemed to be no spare flesh on his bones. “Do I look sickly?”
His pale eyes flickered over her. “A bit peaked, perhaps. Too many late nights, eh?”
She kept her smile in place. What was he implying? “Here? If you think midnight late, you have been away from London far too long.”
His lips stretched in what she could only interpret as a semblance of a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“What think you of Wellington’s chances now that he has reentered Spain?”
“I know little of military matters, monsieur.” Why was he so close these days? It seemed she couldn’t make a move without finding him at her heels like a lapdog.
“I think you are a very intelligent woman. Your salons are well-known beyond London.”
She shrugged. “The secret of a successful salon is to invite people more intelligent than oneself and serve good food and drink.”
He chuckled, a dry, barely audible sound, and raised his glass. “I drink to it.”
She took a sip from her glass in order to have an excuse to look away from him. The champagne tickling her throat, she let her gaze sweep the company. Tables laden with food had been set up at one end of the lawn and blankets and rugs laid on the grass. Waiters went about serving the guests. She spotted MacKinnon bending to offer her mother something from a platter.
With effort, she turned her attention away from him.
The picnic was set up near the same stream where she’d sat beside MacKinnon but closer to the house. Here the waterway was wider and a pretty oriental-style bridge spanned it. A group of the children—children born and brought up in England by their émigré parents—was standing on the bridge, gazing downward. Others were running around the lawn, their French governesses trying to keep them in order.
Would they grow up as she had, torn in her loyalties between two countries? Or were they thoroughly British? She heard a mixture of English and French floating over to her from their laughing voices. A string quartet playing in the background vied with their childish shouts.
In truth, she found it difficult to sit at ease this afternoon and pretend to have no other thought in her
mind but sampling the lobster mousse and lemon ice. Her thoughts were on Hartwell House. She had returned from her early morning ride to find a messenger from London for the Comte.
She had gleaned from a gentleman-in-waiting that the courier came directly from the prime minister’s office.
What could be so crucial to bring someone all the way from London to Louis? She must find a way to discover what communiqué the messenger brought.
She tapped a finger against the side of her glass in time to the quartet.
“A strawberry, my dear lady?”
“I beg—” She turned to find a plump strawberry almost at her mouth. She took the fork from de la Roche, not allowing him to feed her and careful not to brush her hand against his. “Thank you.”
“The first of the season.”
She bit down on its juicy, tender flesh. “Delicious.”
As she savored the fruit, her mind went back to her problem. The Comte rarely left his chambers since he suffered from gout so badly. But she’d heard he was following a rigorous diet in order to be well enough to attend the masquerade.
The bal masqué would be ideal. Everyone would be attending, including the servants. It would give her the opportunity to don a disguise as well.
She had planned on dressing as a simple shepherdess, but now she considered something that would hide her identity more thoroughly. It would have to transform her and not hinder her movement. She would have to find a way to enter the Comte’s private study and leave quickly.
“Lady Wexham, could you tell us who makes your gowns?”
Céline shook herself out of her absorption. Two young ladies, who were sisters, had approached her blanket. Daughters of émigrés, they were younger than Céline by a decade at least. She felt a twinge of compassion for them. They were of an age to have their first season in London, but their parents probably could not afford to give them one.