Chapter 8
Jessica’s arrival at Braeleigh was uneventful. The workers had nearly finished their refurbishing, and the house was again quiet. Margaret was obnoxious, as usual. The only change in Jessica’s normal routine was that she did not stay the night at Braeleigh. She remained only long enough to give the stipend to Margaret and visit with Jason a short while. Her relief at leaving Margaret behind was overshadowed by her regret at leaving Jason. She had to find a solution to their situation soon. A little voice in her head kept saying that Damien would help if she became his mistress. But her pride kept rejecting that advice. She was distracted when she left on horseback to deliver Madame’s letter to Monsieur Montaigne. As usual, Donny had traveled as far as the inn. She would wait for Jessica there, where they would spend the night and then travel back to London the following day.
The sun was beginning to set as Jessica rode into the yard of the house belonging to Monsieur Montaigne. She was too preoccupied, her thoughts still on Jason, to notice the unusual stillness, although she did think it strange that the gallant gentleman did not come to the door to meet her as was his custom. He knew when she was coming and always remained at home.
Her horse gave a nervous whinny as she tied it to the hitching post. Jessica calmed it, then walked to the door and knocked. When she received no answer, she tried the door. It was unlocked, so she walked in. There were no candles lit to dispel the oncoming gloom of dusk. The house was in shadow.
“Monsieur Montaigne!” Jessica called. “It is Jessica!”
There was no reply. Perplexed, she walked several steps farther and tried again.
“Monsieur! Monsieur Montaigne!” Again, there was no answer.
Jessica frowned and worried her bottom lip with her teeth. Now what was she to do? There was no one to whom she could deliver the letter. She could not wait for Monsieur Montaigne’s return, for it would be dark soon, and she had to leave for the inn. As she turned to retrace her steps to the door, something moved in a corner. She peered into the shadows. A form detached itself from the gloom and stepped into the dim light from the doorway. She fell back and gasped, her imagination turning it into a ghoul. But no. It was a man, dressed completely in black, except for his shirt, which was a startling white. His jacket was of superfine, his waistcoat of satin, his breeches of soft, black buckskin, his shirt of silk. His boots gleamed in the dull light, and the wide brim of his peasant hat placed his face deep in shadow. He wore a black, silky half-mask across his eyes.
He made a sweeping bow, then spoke in French, “Bonjour, mademoiselle. Perhaps I can be of some assistance?”
Jessica took another step back. Now that she saw she did not face a monster, her heart rate slowed, but she remained wary.
“Who are you, monsieur?” she demanded, also in French. “Where is Monsieur Montaigne? Where is his housekeeper, Madame Souchet?”
The stranger shook his head. “I regret they are no longer here. They were forced to leave on very urgent business. Could I deliver some message, perhaps?”
Jessica stilled, suspicious. Could this man be after the letter she was carrying? Had he been sent by the enemies of Monsieur Montaigne and Madame du Barré? But why? Who was he?
“No, thank you. That will not be necessary,” she answered smoothly. “I came merely to pay a visit to my friend, Monsieur Montaigne. Since he is not here, I will leave.” She began to back toward the door.
“I do not think that would be wise, mademoiselle,” he said softly in a voice edged with steel.
The dim light that was coming through the open door was cut off. She swung around. Another man, also dressed in black, blocked her escape. She turned back to the caped figure. Panic seized her. The memory of the night she was attacked by Bellingham made her shake. To hide the trembling of her hands, she clutched them together. She prayed her knees would not buckle.
“What do you want of me, monsieur?” She was surprised her voice sounded steady and strong. “I have nothing of value.”
“What one person thinks of as worthless, mademoiselle, is another person’s treasure. You are carrying something of great value to many people.”
Jessica caught the gleam of white teeth as he smiled. She raised her chin in brave defiance. She would not be fooled into handing over Madame’s private correspondence to anyone, especially this stranger who could be working for Napoleon’s Minister of Police.
“I believe you are mistaken, monsieur.” She spread her hands before her. “As you can see, I have nothing that could be of such great importance to so many.”
The man signaled to his friend blocking the doorway, who backed out and shut the door, but his departure only heightened Jessica’s apprehension. She was alone again with the man wearing the cape. He stepped toward her.
“Perhaps, if I described this important item, you would remember that you carry it,” he suggested.
He leaned negligently on the back of a nearby chair. His air of nonchalance did not fool Jessica in the least. But perhaps it would give her a few extra seconds to get to one of the rooms at the rear of the house and then make her escape through a window. She inched back a few steps.
“Yes,” she agreed. “If you could tell me what it is you want, then maybe I could help you.”
“It is a letter,” he said. “A letter from someone you know in London written to Monsieur Montaigne. Do you know of such a letter, mademoiselle?”
“A letter, monsieur?” Jessica frowned as if in thought. She was amazed at how easily she pretended with this dangerous stranger. She shook her head. “No, I know of no such letter.” She edged away a bit more. “There must be someone else coming to visit Monsieur Montaigne. He must have the letter you want.”
At her last word, Jessica turned and fled. She heard the stranger behind her. If she could only reach that doorway, she could close and lock the door on him. He was so close. Just a few more steps. He grabbed for her. She slipped away. Then into the room. He was too close for her to shut the door. To the window. His hand closed around her arm, jerked her back. Her impetus swung her about and slammed her against the wall. The wind was knocked from her. He held her, face to the wall, pinned by his body, one hand pressed against the wall on either side of her.
She tried to wriggle free, but he caught her wrists and pulled her arms above her head. His grip was firm, unyielding. He would not let go. Against her back, she could feel his heart beating. His warm breath fluttered tendrils of hair on her neck.
“I am sorry if I have hurt you, mademoiselle, but it was not wise to try to run away.” His words were soft. “You would not have gone far had you escaped. My men surround the house, and they do not take kindly to people who cause them trouble. Nor do I. Not even someone as beautiful as yourself.” He paused. “Now, mademoiselle, you have a choice. Either you give me the letter that we both know you carry, or I will take it by force. I assure you, the first alternative will be more pleasant for you, and the second, well, that will be more pleasant for me, non?”
His last words sent a shiver down her spine. She had no doubt that his threat was sincere. The thought of having his hands tearing at her clothes turned her stomach nauseous. All she could think of was Bellingham above her, pushing her thighs apart, attempting to breach and defile her.
“I will give you the letter, monsieur,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“A very wise decision, mademoiselle. I warn you not to try anything foolish that will anger me. You would not like me when I am angry.” He released her wrists and stepped back.
She swung around to face him. “I do not like you now, monsieur.”
He let out a mock sigh. “That is most unfortunate.” Then he grinned. “Because I like you.”
Jessica scowled at him.
Becoming grave, he said, “The letter, please, mademoiselle.”
She glanced left and right, considering escape. He took a step closer, threatening with his proximity. She would never get away from him. She was caught. She could only give him what he wanted.
She hoped Madame would understand why she turned over her correspondence to this outlaw. She turned her back on him and lifted her skirt. Tucked into a frilly garter was the sealed letter. She pulled it out and allowed her skirt to drop into place. As she handed him the letter, she tried to see his face beneath the hat. Something familiar about him niggled at her.
He smiled as he took the letter. “Many thanks, mademoiselle. You have saved us both a great deal of aggravation.”
He took her by the elbow and steered her back to the front parlor. Gallantly, he motioned her to sit.
“Please, remain here, mademoiselle,” he said. “I will not be so gentle if you decide to try to escape again.”
As he walked away from her, he pulled a pistol out of his belt and placed it on a table. Jessica did not doubt that he would use the weapon if she tried to move. Fearfully, she swallowed. Would he release her now that he had what he wanted? Or would he keep her and…? She could not finish the thought.
Outside, twilight was turning to night. She watched as he lit a candle. He became engrossed reading the letter. He was turned away from her, but the light glinted on his hair that curled below his hat. Golden hair. Jessica’s eyes widened as she studied him. That profile. It could not be, could it?
He finished the letter and turned to face her. The candle threw its light under the brim of his hat. Jessica gasped.
“You!” she blurted. She clutched the arms of the chair. She needed to hold onto something solid.
Damien flinched as if he’d been struck. The look on her face tore at him. He had wanted to get through this evening without revealing his identity. He removed his mask.
“Yes,” he said, switching from French to English.
“Were you the one who sent the warning?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“But why? What do you want with Madame’s letter? Why are you dressed like that? Why did you do this to me?” Her questions tumbled one after the other.
“Do you know what is in Madame’s letter?” he demanded, trying to ignore her bewilderment and tamping down his desire to soothe her.
“Of course not. I do not read other people’s private correspondence,” she said, affronted.
“Perhaps you should.” His tone was grim. He walked to the door and told his men he had the situation under control. Then he returned and stood over her. He forced the next words out of a tight throat. “I am placing you under arrest for treason, Jessica.”
Her mouth dropped open. Then, nearly hysterical, she began to laugh. “Treason!” she gasped. “Damien, how long did it take you to figure out this little charade to get me to come to you?”
Damien blanched. Not only did she not believe him, but she had impugned his honor.
“Jessica.”
His voice cut through her laughter like a blade.
Her amusement died abruptly.
“I have not broken my promise to you, and I am not lying,” he said coldly.
Jessica stared up at him blankly.
Damien watched her carefully. Her eyes had gone dead. She was in shock, retreating into herself, protecting herself from any more hurt. He hated himself for what the situation required of him, but he was her jailer now. He had to make her see that.
He grabbed her arms and pulled her out of the chair. He knew the signs of shock and hysteria very well. He could not allow her to fall apart. He wanted to save her.
With a little shake, he commanded, “Listen to me, Jessica. The letters which you have been delivering for Madame contain information which she should not have. You have been helping to deliver secrets to Napoleon. I am working undercover to stop anyone who is delivering that information. Do you understand me?”
She stared at him. Slowly, her eyes focused.
“Treason?” she asked in a small voice.
“Yes.”
She blinked. “I am under arrest?”
“Yes.”
The finality of his single word landed on Jessica’s ears like a stone. He released her. Her knees buckled, and she sank back into the chair. How could this be happening? The mess of her life had gone from awful to disastrous. Her mind skittered away from the overwhelming repercussions of her arrest and settled on curiosity instead. She frowned.
“How can you arrest me?” she asked. “What authority do you have?”
“The authority of His Majesty the King. I am a colonel in His Majesty’s army.” His words held the ring of truth.
She frowned. “Then you are not truly a duke?”
“I am that, too,” he said with a little sigh, as if burdened by both responsibilities.
Jessica was confused. “But why are you both?” she asked. Few men, she knew, bought a commission in the army if they were to inherit a title. Buying a commission was left to second and third sons of the titled.
Damien smiled grimly. “It’s a long story.”
He turned away and collected his pistol, mask, hat, and the all-important letter. He paused beside the table holding the lit candle. “Come along, Jessica. It is time to leave.”
She gathered her strength. Then slowly, as if she were an old woman, she rose and walked to his side. He blew out the candle and guided her to the door. Outside, she saw several other men dressed like Damien. Aphrodite was still tethered where she had left her.
“Who owns the horse?” Damien asked.
“She is mine,” she said without thinking. “A gift from my father.”
“Where do you stable her?” he pressed.
Jessica did not answer. She had already said too much.
One of the men approached with something dangling from his hand. She heard the clang of metal against metal.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “Will you want these?” He held up manacles.
Jessica stared at the wide iron bands held together by a heavy chain. She could already feel them around her wrists—the hard cold of the iron, the weight of the chain. Bleak desperation overwhelmed her. Blackness swept over her. She swayed against her horse.
Damien’s hands closed around her arms and steadied her. A concerned frown furrowed his brow. Then it was gone, wiped from his face as if it had not been.
“I will not put the irons on you,” he said quietly, but firmly, “if you give me your word that you will not try to escape.”
She had no need to give her word. “I have nowhere to escape to.”
He nodded and waved his man away. As they rode out of the yard, the men surrounded Jessica. It was done subtly, with no command spoken. Damien rode before her, at the head of the group. Jessica kept her eyes on his broad back, her mind a complete blank. She could not let herself wonder what would happen to her or to Jason. She just had to do as she was told for now. Later, she would begin to think, to question.
The ride to the inn was made in silence. Occasionally, Damien would drop back to ride beside her, but he made no effort at conversation and neither did she. Jessica had nothing to say to him. She could not explain anything for she was still dazed. Damien likely held her in contempt, and she would not plead with him for mercy. Keeping her dignity, she rode with her back straight and her chin up.
By the time they reached the inn, she was exhausted and chilled to the bone. A light mist had begun soon after they had started out and made the trip seem much longer and more miserable. Jessica’s riding clothes had not been made for long rides in the damp of night. She was shivering uncontrollably, and her teeth chattered.
“Why didn’t you say that you were cold?” His voice held a hint of exasperation.
“You didn’t ask me,” she snapped. She did have some pride left.
Damien pulled her against him, enfolding her in his arms, his cloak shielding her. The warmth of his body was reassuring. The gesture evoked memories of the last time she had been with him. She longed to put her arms around him, but knew she could not. He was her jailer now. She was his prisoner.
As soon as they entered the inn, Donny accosted Damien. “Here now! Ye take yer hands off her!” She tugged at Damien’s arm. “Ye’ll not be puttin’ yer filthy hands all over my lady.” When her tugging did no good, she tried to wrest Jessica away.
Damien turned cold, green eyes on her. Jessica did not want his anger to spend itself on Donny, so she intervened.
“Donny,” she said softly. “It’s all right. I will explain later.”
“Hmph,” Donny grumbled. “It doesn’t look all right.” But she retreated back a step.
Damien removed his cloak and draped it over Jessica’s shoulders. Then he took aside the innkeeper. While they spoke, Jessica kept her chin up proudly and stared at one of the far beams of the ceiling. Donny warily watched the men who stood stiffly about. The silence was awkward. Jessica breathed a sigh of relief when Damien returned.
“A meal will be sent to your room,” he said. “I took the liberty of ordering a bath. It will cure your chill. I will come to see you later.”
“Thank you,” she said, then started up the stairs with Donny.
One of Damien’s men followed.
Donny blocked his way. “Where d’ye think ye be goin’?”
Jessica put her hand on the woman’s arm. “Please, Donny. It’s all right. He will not bother us.” She met the man’s eyes and gave him a small smile. Then she continued up the stairs.
Donny followed, grumbling the whole way. She nearly growled when he stationed himself outside the room. As soon as Donny shut the door, she demanded an explanation. Jessica told her what had happened at the house of Monsieur Montaigne, and who had brought her to the inn. She only omitted that Damien had been her lover.
When she’d finished, the little woman asked, “What about his babe that ye be carryin’?”
Jessica gasped and stared at her in astonishment.
“Don’t ye look so surprised,” Donny said. “I’ve taken care of ye all yer life. Don’t ye think I know what ye be about?”
Fiercely, Jessica said, “Donny, don’t you breathe a word of this, especially to him, or I will tan your hide.”
Donny sniffed. “I can keep me mouth shut. But if ye weren’t so proud, ye’d tell him. He might be able t’make things easier for ye.”
“No, I’ll not take his pity. Or anyone else’s.” Jessica turned her back. She was relieved Donny remained quiet.
Jessica was huddled in a chair by the fire when Damien came to her room. She wore her dressing gown and had left her hair loose. She knew she should have been properly dressed, but she had no strength. He stood, cool and remote, just inside the door. She wanted him to gather her in his arms and tell her everything would be well. Instead, he looked every inch the soldier, despite his clothes. Why couldn’t their relationship have been different? Why couldn’t she hate him?
“I came to inform you we will be leaving at dawn tomorrow,” he said. “There will be a man posted outside your door tonight. Do not cause him any trouble.”
She smiled wryly. “I will still be here in the morning, Your Grace. I think you overrate the ability of your prisoner.”
“The success of what I do depends on not overrating anyone or anything,” he said seriously.
Jessica nearly laughed at the ludicrous idea of being considered dangerous. Instead, with a wry twinkle, she said, “I suppose I should be flattered that you think me that important.”
Something flashed through his eyes. He looked about to say something, then stopped, cleared his throat. “I am only telling you, so you may be warned.” With a formal bow, he said, “Good night, Jessica.”
As he turned toward the door, she stood. “Damien.”
He stopped with his hand on the latch.
“What is going to happen to me?” Her words came out small and frightened.
He did not answer immediately. A muscle twitched in his jaw. She thought she saw compassion—or was it contempt? —cross his face, but it was gone too quickly for her to be sure.
“I believe traitors are hanged,” he said. Then he was gone.
She gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth, as she sank back into the chair.
His words were like hammer blows. How long before the sentence would be carried out? A month? Two? Certainly not long enough to allow her child to be born. There would be a trial. Perhaps she could throw herself on the mercy of the court. Perhaps they would postpone carrying out the sentence long enough to allow her to bear her child. Would Damien accept the babe as his? Would he care for it? Love it?
Tears slipped down her cheeks. The Ice Witch’s icy façade was cracked. There was nothing she could do. Her own foolishness and naïveté had gotten her into this mess. But what else could she have done? Margaret had tied her hands—holding the threat of an unwanted marriage over her head while keeping Jason hostage. She’d had no other recourse but to raise the funds through gaming and no other choice but to do as Madame had requested in order to gain access to her gambling den.
Wiping her tears, she heaved a watery sigh. She supposed she was better off leaving this life. She could never belong to Damien anyway, not the way he wanted, not with Margaret’s evil hanging over her head. And what of Jason? Her heart broke for her brother, who, with her death, would be left at the mercy of Margaret’s wrath and no one to watch over him. Dare she ask Damien to help Jason after she was gone? Weren’t the condemned allowed one last request? She would tell Damien about Jason and the child. But not now. She couldn’t risk putting her brother at greater risk than he already was. She had to protect Jason and her babe for as long as she could. She would tell Damien when she could hide it no longer. With those decisions made, she went to bed, to wait for the next step down in her degradation.
The next morning, Jessica was escorted outside by another of Damien’s men. A coach waited with the Wyndham heraldic device emblazoned on its door. Damien, dressed in an officer’s uniform, was speaking with several of his men, who were also dressed as soldiers in His Majesty’s army. She felt a catch in her throat at the way he had been transformed. He was just as handsome, just as magnetic, but with a military bearing, a commander at ease with his men.
He approached and without any greeting, he said, “You will be more comfortable riding in the coach. We will be traveling all day with only a few stops to rest the horses. Since you will not tell me where you stable your horse, we will have to take her with us. Is there anyone in the area whom you wish to inform of your arrest?”
Jessica looked into his face. There was no softening of his features. He was merely being courteous. He had become the soldier, her jailer, completely.
Dropping her gaze, she said, “There is no one.”
Damien nodded, then offered his hand to help her into the coach. He had not missed the faint, dark shadows under her eyes that spoke of her sleepless night. Evidently, his parting remark the evening before had done what he’d intended. She was scared now, as she should be for what she had done. He wanted her to dwell on the consequences of her actions. Treason was a very serious business. He would alleviate her fears later, and persuade her to incriminate Madame. Even if she did not, the letter was enough evidence to arrest Madame du Barré, the hub of the spy ring.
As he walked to his horse, he tried to decide whether Jessica was guilty or innocent. He wanted to believe that she was telling the truth when she said she knew nothing of the contents of the letter. If only she was not so secretive about who she was and where she came from. What was she hiding? Whom was she protecting?
The ride back to the city was agony for Jessica. She conjured up grim and ghastly scenes, most of which had to do with Newgate Prison, and most of which ended in her horrible death. Rejecting even the small, yet very important fact that the contents of the letters she had delivered were unknown to her, she believed that just because she had delivered them made her guilty of treason. She had been so gullible.
By the time they reached the city, Jessica no longer cared what happened to her. She’d tried and convicted herself and found herself guilty. She’d brought shame and scandal to the family name. Jason was better off without her.