Six

Collette’s hands shook so much she hid them in the folds of her cape and hoped Mr. Beaumont had not noticed. The hackney was dark, but he had a keen eye. And his gaze always seemed to be on her. Though he had been polite and reserved, she’d seen the appreciation warm his eyes when he first saw her tonight. He didn’t need to say he thought she looked beautiful. He hadn’t said it, as was befitting their new status as friends, but she’d seen it in his face and heard it in the reverent tone of his voice.

She had been told she was beautiful before—not often but on occasion. And yet she’d never felt as beautiful as she did under Beaumont’s silent appreciation. She wore a dark-green dress of silk with spangles on the hem that shimmered when she walked. Unlike the yellow dress, the cut of this one was a bit more modest, but she still felt she showed too much cleavage. Beaumont’s gaze had not slipped to her chest, so perhaps she was simply self-conscious. Lady Ravensgate had enthusiastically agreed to the night at the theater and agreed to join the two of them. Collette had told her sponsor that Mr. Beaumont was simply acting as a friend, but Lady Ravensgate still gave her knowing smirks whenever Beaumont wasn’t looking. Collette did not care. Beaumont knew Draven, and if he became her friend, she would be able to ask him about Draven and perhaps gain access to the man.

“Ah, here we are,” Mr. Beaumont said.

Collette peered out at the brightly lit entryway filled with distinguished-looking men and glittering women exiting gleaming carriages. Columns lined the portico where coaches paused to deliver their occupants. She supposed the lower classes must attend the theater as well, but perhaps they had a separate entrance. As Beaumont led her inside, Lady Ravensgate having waved off his offer of an arm, Collette craned her neck to admire the architecture before being guided up the stairs and to the boxes. “Which play are we seeing?” she asked.

“It is called The Disguise. I cannot remember the playwright’s name, but this production is new. He’s relatively new. I saw his debut last year, and I chuckled for days. You should enjoy it.”

“Then you attend the theater often?”

“When I have the chance.” He nodded at a group of ladies they passed, and Collette did not fail to notice that two of the four stared longingly after him while the other two shot daggers at him. None of them attempted to waylay him, however. “And you? Do you go to the theater often?”

“Of course. Paris is known for its theater.” Too late, she realized she had said the wrong thing, but before she could cover her error, he gestured to the curtain before them.

“This is my family’s box.” He held the curtain open for her, and as soon as she entered, she gasped in a breath. The light was incredible. It was so bright that she almost thought it daytime.

“Ah, I see they finished the installation of the gas lighting,” Beaumont said.

Collette might have admired the colors and the well-lit faces of the other attendees longer, but a tall, handsome man rose and stood before her.

“Rafe. Your sister said you would be joining us.” He bowed formally. In the chair beside him, Collette recognized Lady Birtwistle. The man standing must have been her husband. And he’d called Beaumont Rafe. So that was his given name. It felt like intimate knowledge.

“Lord and Lady Birtwistle, may I present Lady Ravensgate and her cousin Miss Fournay.”

“Oh, we’ve met already,” Lady Birtwistle said. “I am so glad you could join us.”

Lord Birtwistle bowed again. “A pleasure as always Lady Ravensgate, and it is lovely to meet you, Miss Fournay. Please do take a seat.”

He gestured to a seat beside his wife, but when she moved to take it, Beaumont stepped before her and angled it so Lady Ravensgate might sit. That left one unoccupied seat in the front row and four behind. Collette moved to take the empty seat beside Lady Ravensgate, but Beaumont pulled out a chair behind the older woman.

“You aren’t so cruel as to leave me all alone back here, are you?”

Collette hesitated. Lady Ravensgate looked from Collette to the chair to Beaumont. “You had better be on your best behavior, Mr. Beaumont.”

“If you look over your shoulder, you will see my halo, my lady.” He gave that charming smile of his and, after Collette took her chair, sat in the one beside it. She made a point of pretending to study the theater and peer at the crowd, but mentally she was attempting to think of an explanation for why she would have attended the theater in Paris so often when she had told Beaumont she’d lived in the country. It was the first real mistake she had made while in London, and she cursed herself for becoming too comfortable around him and lowering her guard.

“The theater burned down seven or eight years ago,” Beaumont told her. “This building is relatively new.”

“The gas lighting is amazing.”

“I agree. They’ve extended it to the stage. I believe it is the first theater in England to be gaslit throughout.”

“But isn’t gas lighting dangerous?”

“I fear candles and open fire are more dangerous. The theater has burned down three times already, and the owners are hoping the gas lighting will mean there won’t be a fourth time. I wish we had a better box, but my father never attends the theater. He only keeps the box for the sake of appearances.” He went on, telling her about some of the more memorable productions he had attended, and Collette found herself listening and laughing at his descriptions of actors and mishaps during the plays or operas. When the play began and he turned his attention to the stage, she missed their conversation.

And she also blew out a relieved breath. Apparently, he hadn’t noticed her slip of the tongue. She was grateful for that. She was also grateful that it seemed he was sincere when he’d said he wanted to be her friend. He had made no attempt to flirt with her and, except for a few appreciative glances, had treated her as though she were his sister. In fact, he and his sister had exchanged a few comments, and he spoke to her very much in the same manner he spoke to Collette.

She shouldn’t have felt disappointed that he had so easily transitioned from a man who had seemed desperately attracted to her to a platonic friend, but that was what she had wanted, was it not?

She turned her attention to the play and enjoyed it for the first quarter hour. Then her sense of unease began to grow. The title of the play was apt, as every character in the play wore a disguise of some sort or another. For some of them, like the pretty young woman in love with a young man whose family owned a print shop, the disguise was physical. She dressed as an errand boy who stood about on the shop’s stoop all day so she could be close to the man she loved. He, of course, never noticed her. He was in love with an older woman who was also an artist. Except the artist was not a woman at all, but a man who dressed as a woman because he thought it made his art more interesting if people thought it was the work of a woman.

And then there was the shop owner, whose disguise was more of a mask. He had owned the shop for twenty years, and he had hated every day of it. He didn’t care for art or prints. He longed to work in the soil, to farm or garden, to do something with his hands, something that was useful. But he pretended with each of his customers and the artists whose work he purchased.

The play reminded Collette very much of her own circumstances. Indeed, at one point, the similarities must have struck Lady Ravensgate as well because she turned to look back at Collette, who sat stiffly in her seat. She was very much a woman pretending to be someone she was not. And the frequent slips the characters made, slips in behavior or speech that revealed who they really were, made her remember her own misstep earlier tonight.

But if Rafe Beaumont had any idea she was not who she appeared, any idea that the play unnerved her, he did not show it. He paid rapt attention, leaning over to murmur comments once in a while, laughing uproariously at the characters’ mistakes, and generally seemed to enjoy himself immensely. He was perfectly charming and perfectly behaved, and she could hardly believe he was the same man who had all but trapped her on the terrace at Montjoy’s ball.

Finally, it was time for intermission, and Lady Ravensgate and Lady Birtwistle excused themselves to speak with friends in nearby boxes. Collette made to follow, but Beaumont stayed her. “Please, I beg you, do not abandon me.”

She glanced at Lord Birtwistle. “I am hardly abandoning you, sir.”

“Oh, he won’t be any use. I need you to help me fend off the masses.”

“Don’t you think you are exaggerating?”

He looked at Birtwistle. “Am I exaggerating?”

Birtwistle shook his head, opera glasses on his eyes as he scanned the crowd. “Not at all. A flock of them will arrive at any moment.”

“Miss Fournay, are you coming?” Lady Ravensgate asked. Beaumont gave her another of his pleading looks.

“I will stay behind with the gentlemen if that is agreeable to you, my lady.”

“Suit yourself.”

Now was her chance. She had to ask him about Draven while she had him alone. “My cousin tells me you served under Lieutenant Colonel Draven,” Collette said. “I met him at a ball.”

“Did you?” Beaumont leaned close. “He’s not nearly as handsome as I.”

“No, but he was very entertaining. Unfortunately, he was pulled away because he said he had business with the—what was it now? The International Office?”

“The Foreign Office,” he corrected her.

“That’s right! What sort of—”

She was interrupted when three women squealed and crashed into the box, screeching with pleasure and cornering Beaumont. Collette was physically shouldered out of the way, and she ended up plopping down beside Lord Birtwistle so as not to be trampled.

“Is it always like this?” she asked.

He lowered his glasses, glanced at the women, then raised them again. “Yes. I used to hate the fellow, but now I feel rather sorry for him.”

She did not feel sorry for him. In fact, she felt distinctly annoyed. These women had barged into the Haddington box at precisely the wrong moment. She might have gained the knowledge she sought and been certain Draven had the codes. Then she would have to find a way to sneak into his office or home and steal them. But she could not take such a risk without being sure. These trollops had ruined her careful planning. “Why does he not simply tell them to go away?” she said, bristling.

“He tries,” Birtwistle said, looking at her. “They don’t listen. Rafe tells his sister you are different. You are immune, so you don’t understand how it is.”

“Immune?”

“To his charms. Other women seem incapable of summoning the will not to fall at his feet.”

Collette frowned at this statement. She was not immune to his charms. She was very attracted to him and more than tempted to throw herself at his feet too. But she had too much to lose to give in to such behavior. And though she knew once the play began these women would leave, and Rafe Beaumont would be hers again, she resented having to share him. She might be using him, but he was using her as well. He’d told her he wanted her to keep his adoring followers at bay.

“Excuse me,” she told Lord Birtwistle. She rose and tapped the closest woman on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, you will have to leave. This is a private box and you do not have permission to be here.”

“And who are you?” the woman asked, pointing her sharp nose in the air.

“A friend of the family and the only lady currently in this box with a ticket to sit here.”

The woman sniffed and made a show of stomping out. Collette tapped the next woman on the shoulder and repeated the exchange. By the time she actually reached Beaumont, she had lost most of her tactfulness. Instead, she simply said, “This is a private box. Leave.”

The two women flanking Beaumont glared at her, then looked with large, pleading eyes at Beaumont. “You don’t want us to leave, do you, Rafe?” asked a blond with her large breasts pressed against him.

“Of course he doesn’t,” said a brunette who was one of the most beautiful women Collette had ever seen, though her hard eyes ruined the effect somewhat.

“Er…” Beaumont began.

“He does,” Collette answered for him. “Tell them to go, Mr. Beaumont.”

“Go?” Beaumont spoke the words as though they were a question.

“You will speak with them at another time,” she prompted.

“Yes. Another time,” he repeated.

The women both huffed out breaths. The blond whispered something in his ear that made his brows rise, and then the two women left, their hips swaying. Collette followed them, closing the box’s curtain and motioning to an usher just outside. “Sir, please make sure no one but Lady Ravensgate and Lady Birtwistle are able to enter for the rest of the evening.”

When he was in place, she returned to the box and took a seat. She could breathe again and the box was no longer stuffy and cramped.

“That’s much better,” Birtwistle said, voicing her thoughts. “A man can think again. Excuse me, won’t you? I need a moment.”

He strolled out of the box, leaving Collette alone with Beaumont. She doubted Lady Ravensgate would have approved.

“He smokes,” Beaumont said, looking after his brother-in-law. “Surprised he made it this long without stepping away.” Then he looked directly at her. “Who are you and where have you hidden Miss Fournay?”

Collette felt her cheeks heat. “I am right here.”

“Do not pretend that sort of behavior is typical for you. And here I thought you were a wilting wallflower.”

“I am!” she protested. She touched her cheeks. “You see that I am blushing.”

“But the way you emptied this box, the way you talked to those women?”

“I forget to be shy when I see someone being taken advantage of—an orphan or a widow. I assure you that now that I think of what I just did, I am mortified. I shall probably faint in a moment.” Indeed, her head felt rather light and the theater seemed to spin.

“None of that,” Beaumont said. “And no hedgehogs either. I shall forgive you comparing me to an orphan or a widow because you did the one thing I have been trying to do for years—tell all those women to go away.”

“I don’t understand why you don’t just tell them.”

He made a face. “Because although the attention can be annoying, it is also rather hard to forego. What man doesn’t enjoy a half-dozen ladies hanging on his every word?”

“And whispering in his ear. What did the blond woman say to you?”

He grinned at her. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to marry you.”

She flushed again, this time her cheeks flaming hot. “That scandalous?”

“She isn’t subtle.” He gave Collette a quick perusal. “Not like you. I never thought I would like women who were subtle, but I find I actually like it very much.”

She gave him a warning look, and he smiled and held up a hand. “In a friend. I like it in a friend. And you, Miss Fournay, have proven yourself a very good friend tonight. Thank you.”

She ducked her head to hide her red face and heard Lady Ravensgate say, “Why are you thanking my cousin, Mr. Beaumont?”

“Because she is amazing, of course,” he answered.

“Really?” Lady Birtwistle commented, her voice teasing. “Wait until I tell Lady Haddington.”

Beaumont scowled at her words. “We are only friends,” he said. “And I must say, she has proven herself an excellent friend tonight. The intermission is at an end.”

At the last minute, Lord Birtwistle entered and took his seat, and then Collette was lost in the story again. It still felt awkward every time one of the characters’ disguises came off, but when she’d glanced at Beaumont, he wasn’t watching her. At least she did not catch his eyes on her, but she felt his gaze more often than she would have considered coincidence. And why shouldn’t he take an interest in her? She’d proven, even to herself, that she too wore a disguise. She simply hoped Beaumont didn’t try to peel it off.

* * *

By the time Rafe arrived back at his flat in St. James’s Square, it was well after midnight. He’d escorted Lady Ravensgate and Miss Fournay home and then directed the jarvey to drive him home. As the Season was over and much of the gentry at their country houses, the streets were relatively empty. The hardworking people of London were fast asleep, resting before beginning their work later that day. But though it took only a half hour to reach his flat, it was long enough for his mind to echo every minute he’d spent with Miss Fournay. It seemed every time he saw her, she was more beautiful. Her dress tonight, though modest, sparkled and shimmered so that it constantly drew his eye to her lush shape. She was not willowy and slim, as was the current fashion. She was curvy and round and delectable. And though he’d been attracted to her all evening, he’d been practically aroused when she’d found her backbone and ordered the women out of the box. If Birtwistle hadn’t been there, Rafe might have shoved Miss Fournay up against the wall and plundered that ripe mouth.

But Rafe had restrained his impulses and maintained the illusion of friendship. He rather liked the idea of having a woman as a friend. Any woman not pursuing him, not wanting something from him, was to be welcomed. He only wished it were not Miss Fournay who had to be the token female friend. She was the first woman who’d captured his interest in a very long time.

The hackney stopped before his building, and he jumped out and paid the driver. As the driver drove away, Rafe spotted a gleaming black carriage waiting just at the corner. A footman hopped down from the box and bowed before Rafe. “Sir, Mrs. Monroe would speak with you.”

“Of course.” Rafe followed the footman to the carriage. He’d recognized it, of course. Kitty Monroe was a close friend of his, a young widow whose husband had left her quite wealthy. At one time, she and Rafe had been very close. He hadn’t seen her except in passing since returning from the war. After his experiences on the Continent, he hadn’t been interested in seeing any of his former paramours. He wasn’t the same man who had left for war, but he wasn’t yet certain who he was now.

The footman opened the door and Rafe climbed in. He kissed Kitty’s hand and sat across from her as the door clicked shut, leaving them alone in the cozy glow of candlelight. “Shall I have John Coachman drive us?” Kitty asked. She was an American who Theodore Monroe had met when doing business in the former colonies, and though Rafe generally found American accents jarring, he didn’t mind hers. Her voice was soft and low, very seductive.

“If you like,” Rafe said.

“But you’d rather not.” She looked at him closely. “You’re tired tonight. I’ve come at a bad time.”

“Kitty, I’m always happy to see you.” And he was. He’d enjoyed her company in bed and out.

“But you are wondering why I am here and hoping I don’t want to renew our former relationship.”

She’d always been good at reading him. “I am surprised to see you, not unhappy.”

“You haven’t seen me because you haven’t sought me out. I thought perhaps there was someone else. Someone serious,” she qualified, since there was almost always a woman on his arm. “But my sources told me otherwise. I see now that’s not the case. Who is she?”

“I have no idea whom you might be referring to. You know I am rarely ever serious, especially not about women.”

“I do know, yes. You don’t really believe in love, do you?”

He made a noise of dismissal. “Do you?”

“Of course! I loved my husband.” She leaned across the space between them. “I loved you.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Because if you had believed it, you would have run from me like a skittish horse.”

“Skittish? I resent that comparison!”

She laughed. “Oh, Rafe. Who hurt you, darling?”

He put a hand to his heart in mock pain. “You hurt me with your equine comparisons.”

She laughed. “It is good to see you. And it is very good to see the tables have turned.”

He frowned. “What tables? And who turned them?”

“Whoever it is who has hold of your heart has turned them. You are the one in love.”

“I am no such thing.”

She arched a brow.

“I was with a woman tonight, but we are merely friends.”

“You? Friends with a woman?”

“That’s right. I’ve changed.”

“I won’t argue. The war did change you, but this is a stretch, even for you.”

He couldn’t tell her about the mission, nor did he want to. Why couldn’t he be friends with a woman? Despite the rumors, he was actually rather discerning about who he took to bed. “It’s true.”

“I see. If you are only friends, then perhaps my appearance is not unwelcome. I brought wine. Shall we go inside and open it?”

He was tempted. Sorely tempted. Kitty was beautiful and familiar. He could spend the night with her and nothing would be required of him in the morning. Not to mention it had been some time since he’d had a woman in bed, and the unwelcome attraction to Miss Fournay had left him aroused but unsatisfied.

“Oh dear,” Kitty said. “It is worse than I thought.”

“I apologize for hesitating. It’s just that—”

She held up her hand. “Do not give me excuses. I have heard them all and used several myself. And in any case, I know the real reason. I am not her.”

“That has nothing to do with it.” But a bell dinged somewhere in his head. Kitty had always understood him. Sometimes better than he understood himself. And he didn’t particularly like it because he was not in love with Miss Fournay and he did not want her in his bed.

Wait. He did want her in his bed, but since that was not to be, he could satisfy his needs with another woman.

“No?” she asked.

“No. Come on, then. Let’s go to bed.”

But to his annoyance, she shook her head. “I don’t think so. Even if that had not been the clumsiest proposition I have ever received, I would say no.”

“A moment ago you propositioned me.”

“A moment ago I thought you might still want to bed me, but I won’t be your substitute for the evening.”

“You could never be anyone’s substitute.”

“Thank you. I prefer to keep it that way.” She lifted the bottle of wine from the seat beside her and handed it to him. “Take it. I think you need it more than I.”

Rafe left the wine and stomped up the stairs to his flat. He let himself in and slammed the door behind him. He’d given his valet the rest of the night off, and the maid only worked during the day, so he was all alone. Alone with his annoyance and frustration. He scanned the room, looking for something he might smash.

“And I worried you wouldn’t be alone.”

Rafe spun around, his hands in fists, ready to defend. The man in the black silk half mask merely smiled. “I thought you were a lover, not a fighter.”

“Hell’s teeth, Jasper,” Rafe said between clenched teeth. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

“How did you get inside?”

“Your valet took pity on me before he left for the night. The women waiting outside your door were quite adamant you asked them to wait for you. Inside. On the bed. In the buff.” He’d dropped the cant he used so often and which was required in his work. Rafe was relieved. He was too tired to wade through the rookery slang tonight.

Rafe spun back around, toward the door to his bedchamber. “Pye didn’t let them in, did he?”

“No. Although why that should make you happy, I will never understand.”

Rafe turned back to him. “You must have been waiting for hours.”

Jasper shrugged as though the point was insignificant. It probably was. He was a patient man and a respected bounty hunter. When Bow Street couldn’t find their man—or woman—Lord Jasper was the man they called on. “Draven sent me.”

“Does this have anything to do with my mission?”

“Everything.”

“Sit down, then.”

Jasper was like a brother to him, so Rafe did not even mind that he settled himself in Rafe’s favorite chair or that he’d obviously been sitting there for some time as the half glass of Rafe’s best port beside the chair would indicate. “Port?” Jasper asked.

“Help yourself,” Rafe drawled.

He lit a second lamp, bringing more light to the room, and took the less comfortable seat across from Jasper. Rafe had spent some time choosing the furnishings in this room and the others, just as he did with his clothing. The tables and chairs were heavy wood, suited to the long, rectangular room. Upholstered in greens, blues, and deep reds, they gave the room a quiet, masculine feel. The shelves of books took up one wall and more bound volumes had been stacked on the side tables. Jasper had been here before, of course, as had Neil and Ewan and several of the others from Draven’s troop. When they’d marveled at his library, Rafe had passed it off as necessary in the pursuit of women. Ladies liked men who could quote poems and sonnets.

But truthfully, Rafe’s love of reading had come when he’d been young. He’d so often been forgotten that he’d learned to amuse himself with a book, usually one with quite a few pictures. After his parents had remembered he needed an education, like the rest of his siblings, his reading skills had improved and he’d been able to read longer volumes and even those without drawings. Now he often read to fall asleep. It was a trick he’d learned when he’d returned home from the war and tended to dream of battles. If he read before sleep, he dreamed of that book.

“Did Draven send you to scold me for my lack of progress?”

“No. He sent me to help you. After all, the chit is unlikely to reveal that her given name is Collette Fortier.”

“So she is the daughter of Napoleon’s assassin.”

“It would seem so. Letters I nabbed indicate her father awaits news of her travels.”

Rafe rubbed his jaw, rough with stubble after the long day. “Her father wrote to her?”

“No. They’re from someone who writes of her father and addressed to ma chère amie.”

“A friend. That is innocuous enough.”

“If it smells like a dead rat, look for the corpse.”

“That’s a disgusting phrase.” Rafe shook his head. “Fortier is not an uncommon name. Perhaps it is a coincidence.”

“Then why does she use a sham one?”

Rafe sat back and blew out a breath. Jasper was not combative, but he had a rebuttal for every point. And why shouldn’t he? Rafe thought. Rafe might pretend to play devil’s advocate, but he wanted to defend Collette Fortier. He didn’t want her to be the enemy.

“She may not be a spy,” Jasper said, “but if I were the Foreign Office, I would be suspicious.”

“I’ve watched her for weeks, Jas,” Rafe said, sitting up. “I don’t see any evidence of spying.”

“Maybe you’re too close to see it.”

Rafe took a moment to consider. “No. If anything, I’m not close enough.”

Jasper sipped the port. “You? Not close enough?”

“We’re becoming friends, but I don’t have time to wait for her to confide in me. I need to gain her trust.”

“That’s easy enough.”

Rafe sent his friend a scowl. “This isn’t a rogue in Seven Dials. I can’t press a ha’penny into her hand and buy her loyalty.”

“You couldn’t buy any rogue worth his salt for a ha’penny either, not unless you paid it regular.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Save her. Then she’ll owe you.”

Rafe sat very still for a long moment. If his plan had been to give her something for nothing, his friendship, this was the perfect extension. Now, he’d save her life. If she were thus indebted to him, she couldn’t possibly refuse to answer a few personal questions when he put them to her.

“I can see your brain box working. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Stubble it. No, wait. How do I save her? She’s not the sort who takes many chances. And if I have to wait for her to jump into the Thames or wander into a dark alley where thieves beset her, it might be years.”

“I’ll arrange it.”

“Is that one of your many talents?”

Jasper gave him a half smile. “When do you see her next?”

“The day after tomorrow, or rather, the day after today since it’s already tomorrow.”

“Right.” He pulled a notebook and pencil from his coat. “Give me all the details.”

“Now? It’s almost two in the morning.”

“Just like old times, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but during the war, we always said if we ever made it back, we’d never again take sleeping in a bed for granted.”

“And as I recall, you were about the only one of us who had the luxury of sleeping in a bed.”

“That was work.”

“No, Beaumont. This is work.” He lifted his pencil and looked at Rafe. “Start talking.”