“I can’t believe it.” As if in dismay, Fitz clutched his chest while he searched his brain for a name. “They’re going to arrest…Lord Blackburn?”
De Sainte-Amand snapped to attention. “Lord Blackburn?”
Fitz could almost smell de Sainte-Amand’s brain burning with excitement. “I have connections myself, and I’ve heard that they traced the leak of information to him.” If one knew how, he knew, one could stretch out a lie for hours. “He used to work at the Foreign Office, you know, and apparently helped himself to all kinds of intelligence.”
“Really?” de Sainte-Amand muttered. Then regained some degree of caution, and his gaze measured Fitz thoughtfully. “Who is your connection?”
Now Fitz threw discretion to the winds. “I spoke to Mr. Smith. I think he’s in charge of something over there.”
“Why did you leave, Jane?” Blackburn strode into Jane’s bedchamber with so much arrogance, she wanted to fling her palette of colors right in his contemptuous, sneering, lecherous face. “We looked for you and we were told you were already gone.”
Then he took in the rumpled counterpane, the broken crockery, the easel and canvas and the brilliant colors that smeared it, and she rejoiced in his appalled astonishment.
“Jane, what are you doing?”
“I’m painting.” She pointed her cobalt-dipped brush toward his face. “Do you have any objection?”
To her gratification, he sensed a bit of her frenzy and took one step back. “No.”
“Good. Because I wouldn’t care if you did.”
He stared at her feet. “You’re dripping paint on an Aubusson rug.”
“What difference does it make?” She gestured grandly, and drops flew from her brush. “I’m a Quincy now. I can do whatever I want and hurt whomever I like and no one can tell me I’m mistaken. Isn’t that right, my lord Blackburn?”
His brow knit. “Jane, you’re acting oddly.”
“I’m acting oddly?” She tapped her chest. “I’m not the one romancing my niece!”
“Ah.” He loosened his cravat as if it were too tight. “I was afraid you might have noticed that.” His upper-crust accent stiffened. “I would like to explain, but I’m afraid it’s not possible.”
“Not possible?” She smiled with false affability. “You act as if it’s a matter of national security.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, actually—”
“I mean, the way you’re acting, you might have been hanging near Adorna to hear who she told her newest French phrase to.”
“I beg your pardon!” he snapped.
“Her newest French phrase,” she prodded him relentlessly. “That was your intention, wasn’t it?”
Striding over to her, he grabbed her wrist. “How do you know about that?”
“I’d love to tell you I figured it out on my own. Yes, I’d love to tell you that.” She glowered at him. “But that wouldn’t be true.”
“Jane,” he said warningly.
“The truth is, tonight I met someone I had never met before. Someone I didn’t even know existed.” Yanking her hand away from his, she dipped her brush in the carmine and smeared the canvas bloody red. “His name was Mr. Thomas Smith.”
She enjoyed the great, exuberant pleasure of watching Blackburn’s jaw drop.
“Yes,” she said. “Mr. Thomas Smith. An interesting man. An almost frightening man. And very direct. Do you know what he told me?”
As if his head ached, Blackburn touched the spot between his eyes. “I can’t imagine.”
“He told me you thought I was a spy.”
Wholly discomfited, Blackburn muddled along. “Well…yes. I’m sure if you think about it, you can see where I got that…that idea. Evidence pointed toward—”
“You”—she pointed at him—“thought I”—she pointed at herself—“was a spy.”
“At the time—”
“It took me quite a bit of explaining before Mr. Smith was convinced I was not a spy.”
“I wish he had not taken it upon himself—”
“He seemed to think he couldn’t leave such a matter of grave national importance to you. He thought you were prejudiced in my favor.”
“Well, yes, in that he was right, of—”
“Prejudiced in your wife’s favor. What a novel idea! Prejudiced in your wife’s favor.” For a moment, words failed her, but Blackburn didn’t again make the mistake of trying to speak. He just watched her cautiously, as if he thought she might ignite. Recovering her momentum, she repeated, “You thought I was a spy.”
“We’ve established that.”
“You watched me, you kissed me…and all the while you thought I was drawing ships for the French!”
“You did try to give that one to—” Blackburn halted.
“The Vicomte de Sainte-Amand—who really is a French spy.”
Appalled, Blackburn asked, “How do you know that?”
“Oh, how stupid do you think I am?” She flung out her arms in the grandest gesture she knew, and it wasn’t nearly expressive enough. “Very stupid, obviously. But once I started working on it, I knew why you thought I was a spy.”
“Did you?”
“Once Mr. Smith decided I definitely wasn’t, he confirmed my suspicions.”
Blackburn’s voice was not free from suspicion when he said, “Mr. Smith is not usually so free with information.”
What did he think, that she’d tortured the old man until he confessed? “In this case, it’s old information. After all, the French network is unraveling at a rapid rate, and the only reason he came after me was to plug any bolt-holes before the rats could flee.”
“I see.”
Obviously he did see, for he had the good sense to look offended. She assumed it was with himself. “So let me flip my tail, wipe my whiskers, and look at you through my beady little eyes while I say—yes. I drew a ship for de Sainte-Amand. He asked for it, and he’d been so sincerely admiring of my work, I thought he wanted it because it was good.” A little of the hurt began to seep through her anger, but she hastily choked it back.
Blackburn apparently decided it was time to employ his least-used faculty—tact. “De Sainte-Amand truly did admire your work. I think perhaps he simply saw an opportunity to get a clear rendering of an English ship and tried to take advantage of it.”
She hated that cajoling, reasoning tone of his. “Shut up, Blackburn.” She opened the pot and slapped yellow ocher onto her palate, then frowned. The vibrant color would do, she supposed, although it was a little too placid for her tastes.
“Why are you so upset?” He sounded a little more frazzled now. “The Foreign Office is the one with the problem. We don’t know who the main culprit is.”
She’d always thought Blackburn an intelligent man. No, no; she’d thought him a god. Now she reeled from his feeblemindedness. Not only did he have the audacity to bring up the Foreign Office when her heart was breaking, but he didn’t even know who his spy was. “It’s Athowe, of course.”
“Athowe?” Blackburn dared to chuckle indulgently. “That idiot?”
“Athowe,” she mimicked. “Who has escaped your net how many times?”
His smile vanished.
“Who did you think your master spy would be? Some nefarious jackal who lurked in the shadows and came out only to feast on the hearts of English soldiers?” She splashed the yellow on the canvas. The drawing was beginning to take shape. “Of course it’s Athowe.”
“Why do you say that?” He dared to sound suspicious.
In her most mocking tone, she said, “Someone in the Foreign Office is collecting information. He is passing it to Monsieur Chasseur, and one or both of them are distilling the information into one or two key, coded phrases to be taught to one of Monsieur Chasseur’s students.”
“How did you know about Monsieur Chasseur?”
“Let me think.” She put her finger to her cheek in mock concentration. “Adorna didn’t like the odd French phrase Monsieur Chas
seur had insisted on teaching her. Something about a loaf of bread, if I recall.”
Blackburn winced.
“You taught her a new one, not significantly different from the old one—I surmise you were mildly suspicious at that point—and she repeated it to several people, including, I suppose, de Sainte-Amand.”
“I suppose.”
“And within a week, a French ship comes ashore at Breadloaf Rock in a foolish attempt to capture the garrison.” Baring all her teeth, she smiled at him. “That surprised you, I know it did. You didn’t really think Adorna could be passing messages. She’s not clever enough. And that’s why the chain was always so successful. Young English girls with nothing more on their minds than clothes and husbands have been utilized as a vital link in the French espionage.”
“And killed if they suspect anything.”
Jane squeezed her brush in her fist. “Killed?”
“You remember. You’re the one who told me. Miss Cunningham didn’t fall from the cliff, she was pushed by Monsieur Chasseur. Why else would he have said she was murdered?”
That aspect hadn’t occurred to Jane, and she gasped as if a giant vise gripped her lungs. “Oh, my God.”
“That’s why I stayed so close to Adorna tonight. I wanted to see who she spoke to, yes, but I wanted to protect her, too. She doesn’t know she’s passing messages, and she certainly doesn’t know she passed one incorrectly—”
“She’s not as stupid as you might think,” Jane said, remembering Adorna’s unusual concentration as she memorized that phrase.
“No, I guessed that. Maybe the others would, too, and if something happened to her, you’d—”
“Kill you.”
“I was going to say weep.” He looked about the broken room. “But perhaps you are right.”
“Adorna.” She’d been angry at Adorna, and all the time the girl had been in danger.
In a tone of sweet reasonability, he said, “So you see, Jane, there’s really no reason to be jealous. I don’t love Adorna. You’re my wife. You’re the one I love.”
Could he be any more stupid? “You think I’m angry because you chased after Adorna? No.” She slashed paint onto the canvas. “I was hurt. I was humiliated. But angry? No. No, that came when I realized you compromised me and all the while you thought I was a spy!”
“You feel betrayed because—”
“Feel betrayed?” She mixed red and blue into an atrocious shade of purple. “I was betrayed. You told a complete stranger I was a suspect.”
“I was going to say”—he was talking through his teeth now—“you feel betrayed because I was not completely honest with you.”
Frustrated beyond control, she slapped her brush to the canvas and didn’t flinch when paint splattered back. “You are such a…man. Completely honest? I’d say you weren’t completely honest. I’d say you lied to me every way a man can lie. With words. With your gaze. With your body. I thought you trusted me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You married me. You took me into your family. I was going to bear your children. I was going to be their mother. And you thought me capable of the most despicable treachery imaginable. You married me thinking I was a spy. What were you going to do, watch my every move? Ship me off to Tourbillon? Imprison me?”
From his expression, she guessed he had considered all three.
“I did marry you.” He said it as if that was supposed to make a difference.
“Oh. The great Ransom Quincy, Marquess of Blackburn, deigned to marry a woman who was not only compromised, not only on the shelf, not only poor, but a spy.” She stood with her hands hanging at her sides, paint dripping on his precious rug, sarcasm dripping from her tone. “I am so honored.”
A spark of hostility caught fire in him, and she saw him tamp it down. “All right, Jane. You’re angry. But we are married and we’ll talk about this when you’re feeling a little more reasonable.”
“I am not unreasonable.”
“I’d have to disagree.” Gently he reached out and caressed her cheek.
She slapped it away, furious that he dared retreat, glad that he was leaving her in peace.
As he turned to leave, he stopped, caught by the portrait she’d drawn. He stared, motionless, blank. “Me?” he asked.
“No one else,” she answered.
Primitive and bold, the painting portrayed him with vivid acrimony. His hair was yellow ocher, his skin a disgusting shade of orange. His bulging purple eyes divulged mania, and each tooth was outlined in black, giving him a predatory air.
Worst of all, below the waist, there was nothing. Wavy lines trailed off the canvas in random order and colors. Her very indifference emasculated him.
She saw the moment the insult hit him. His expression flattened into emptiness, and his mouth smiled without warmth.
“Very well, Jane. Sleep by yourself tonight. But remember this.”
She was stepping back before he reached for her, but she wasn’t fast enough. He scooped her up, carried her to the bed. She twisted in his arms. He placed her on the mattress and swept down atop her like an avenging angel. Gripping her jaw, he held her still. He looked into her eyes. And she saw the face of a man who had killed for his country, who would die for justice, who had grown beyond vanity and into a hero.
And despite all that, he thought nothing of insulting her in the basest manner.
The wretched blackguard.
Grabbing his hair in both her hands, she dragged his lips to hers. She would always know him. His taste, his aroma, his texture, had not changed in eleven years.
But he had changed, and she had changed with him. No longer would she grovel for any scraps he might throw her. She was Jane. She was an artist. And she was a mature and loving woman who deserved a man who believed in her.
They strained together. Her fingers furrowed in his hair. His hands gripped her as if he couldn’t bear the slightest separation. She savored him on her tongue, through her pores, absorbing him like pure pleasure into her veins.
Into her tender, adoring, broken heart.
Damn him. He didn’t believe in her. He didn’t love her. She was nothing but an obligation successfully discharged, a wife adequate for breeding, a woman easily ignored.
Her body must have signaled her desolation, for he lifted his head and stared. “Jane…”
Rebuffing him now was nothing but a feeble gesture, but she did it. She removed her hands from his body. She turned her head away.
“Jane…” She heard something in his voice, something almost yearning.
But when she turned back to look, his expression was nothing but snow and stones.
Standing, he straightened his lapels in his fists, not knowing how the pigments that marked her had also marked him. Purple stained his cravat. Yellow streaked across his forehead. Carmine striped his hair.
But below the paint, his natural color shone with raw energy. His eyes flared with midnight blue, his cheeks were ruddy. And his sweet, damp lips moved as he said, “Remember that, Jane.”
He moved stiffly away from the bed as if it hurt to walk, but it gave her time to collect herself. Time to push herself erect. Time to reach out and grope for something—anything—unbroken by her previous rage. The best she could do was a shard of a vase, and she hurled it after him.
It didn’t even reach halfway across the chamber.
Flinging herself backward, she covered her eyes with her arm. Never in her life had she allowed herself such an awesome fit of temper, but even now she couldn’t work up any remorse.
Remember this, he’d said.
Well, she would. No woman could ever forget that kiss.
Neither could she forget the betrayal.
Chapter 29
Had she slept? Jane didn’t know. She only knew the canopy above her was dainty, ruffled, and not at all the masculine canopy she’d grown accustomed to seeing when she awoke in Blackburn’s bed. Afternoon sunlight now greeted her, not Blackburn’s h
ands groping for the hem of her nightgown. She missed his heat, the way he nuzzled her even in sleep. She even missed his snoring, that proof the man was just that—a man, and not a god.
She hated him so much. She loved him so much. She clenched her fists, gathering handfuls of bedclothes. And she would never settle for second place again.
Yet what could she do? She had married him. She hadn’t had to. She could have run away. She could have protested until his desire had faded to humiliation. Instead she had married him, and he’d proved her rancor was but the foolish wavering of a woman unsure of her allure.
What an irony to discover it wasn’t her charms he doubted, but the character of which she was so proud.
Shoving the bedclothes away, she rose and stumbled to her feet. The floor did not move, and she didn’t understand why. For her, the whole world was in upheaval.
A timid knock sounded, and she clutched the front of her nightgown and glared at the connecting door. Then she realized the knocking came from the outer door, the one that led into the hall.
Stupid. To want to see him, if only to fight with him.
“Aunt Jane?” Adorna stuck her head inside. “Can I talk to you?”
Jane stared at her, resentment sweeping through her. Gowned by the best modiste in London, washed and coifed, Adorna was the picture of health and youth. She was nubile, perfect, with no hidden depths, no burning ambitions.
“Aunt Jane?” Adorna’s eyes were wide and pleading.
Yet Jane couldn’t punish her niece for being what God had made her. “Come in, dear, and be careful of the crockery.”
Adorna trod gingerly across the floor, her gaze darting from the broken vases to the hideous painting tossed on the floor. “I guess you were angry with me?”
Jane picked up her dressing gown. “No, dear,”
“Oh.” Adorna perched on the edge of the bed and pulled her feet up. “At Uncle Ransom, then?”
Jane thrust her hands into the sleeves. “Yes, dear.”
Plucking at the lace on Jane’s sheet, Adorna said, “He wasn’t really paying attention to me, you know.”
“He wasn’t really paying attention to me, either.”
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