Eight

Collette was panicking. She’d been to every salon, musicale, and fete Lady Ravensgate could wheedle invitations to, and still she had not been able to ascertain whether Draven had the codes and, if so, where they were kept. Although Lady Ravensgate’s ankle was still swollen, Collette had dragged the lady to this garden party today because it was her last hope. Draven had been invited and the hostess had intimated he would attend. But she hadn’t seen him yet, which meant the garden party was turning out to be as useless as the other social events she’d attended. The upper classes were ensconced at their country houses this time of year, and the clerks and assistants who might have known juicy tidbits were not invited to the same events as Lady Ravensgate. The only gossip Collette collected concerned the newest hairstyles and speculation about waistlines lowering next Season.

She wanted to cry and scream and rage at God at the injustice of it all. Instead, she pasted a serene expression on her face and pretended to admire the flowers and shrubs artfully arranged in the garden of the Mayfair mansion. It was often difficult to distinguish which were the more colorful—the blooms or the ladies’ dresses. The women strolled in their colorful muslins, twirling delicate parasols and fluttering painted fans. They were like chattering birds who made much noise and all of it signifying nothing.

Collette stayed as long as she could tolerate the scene, then angled herself away from the ladies and the refreshments. When she’d wandered far enough from the main party so as not to be noticed, she slipped behind a section of shrubbery and closed her eyes, squeezing back tears. Then, taking a shaky breath, she dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. She could not cry. She would not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing poor Miss Fournay weeping. It was bad enough she had a reputation for being painfully shy, a necessary thing and easy enough because she was naturally reticent, but she did not relish these Brits cooing over her and pitying her.

“I had hoped you would have the color back in your cheeks the next time I saw you” came a familiar voice. Collette opened her eyes, knowing she would see Rafe Beaumont. She was not disappointed, and he looked as handsome as ever in riding boots, tight breeches, and a close-fitting coat. He doffed his hat, revealing hair tousled and curling slightly beneath. His jaw had been freshly shaven again, and she found she missed the habitual stubble he wore. His eyes were the same mesmerizing shade of violet.

“I am feeling much better,” she said. “I just needed a moment. It has been a long day.”

“It has been a long week,” he said. “I called on you, but you weren’t at home.”

“I had shopping to do.”

He gave her a look that said he knew she was lying. Knew she had been avoiding him.

“You were too occupied to reply to my notes?”

“You must forgive me for that,” she said. “I have never been a very good correspondent.”

“I see. I feared our friendship was at an end. Are we still friends, Miss Fournay?”

She didn’t know how to answer. After that day at the museum, she’d needed to distance herself from him. Her already-confusing feelings for him had grown stronger. He had saved her life, after all. How was she not to feel grateful? And if gratitude had been all she’d felt, she would not have worried so much. But she was even more attracted to him than she had been. When he’d teased her about kissing her, she had wanted to say yes. She had practically begged him to do it.

He was a weakness, and she couldn’t afford a weakness right now. There were other ways to discover information about Draven. There had to be.

“Of course we are friends,” she said with a smile.

“I am glad to hear it. May I escort you back to the party?”

“Thank you.” She took his proffered arm.

“How is Lady Ravensgate? Has she recovered from her fall?” He led her past the shrubs and strolled slowly past the late-season flowers.

“Quite well, yes. She still favors that ankle and must elevate it, but it is growing stronger every day. You will see she is seated on a longue with her foot on a pillow. I fear she rather enjoys the attention and pretending she is a queen on her throne.”

He chuckled. “And how are you? Fully recovered?”

“I was not injured.”

“Yes, but you suffered a terrible scare…” His words trailed off as a servant in gold livery approached, carrying a silver salver. Instead of cups of tea or glasses of lemonade, the tray held a white envelope. “What is this?” Beaumont asked.

“Miss Fournay?” the footman asked.

“Yes,” she answered, her heart beginning to thud painfully in her chest. “What is it? Has Lady Ravensgate taken ill?”

“No, miss. This letter arrived for you. The boy who brought it said it was urgent.”

She took it off the tray, her gaze touching on Lady Ravensgate near the refreshment table, still reclining on her longue.

“Thank you,” she said, transferring her attention to the envelope. Then she looked at Beaumont, who appeared only mildly interested.

“My throat is parched. Would you like lemonade?” he asked.

“I…” She looked down at the note again.

He understood immediately. “You want to read your letter. Of course, you do. Shall I show you somewhere you won’t be disturbed? There’s a small gazebo just through those hedges. Shall I take you?”

“Please.” As usual, she was grateful to him. He led her through an opening in the hedges and along a worn path toward a small stone gazebo. The structure was covered with vines, some of them flowering, and inside were two stone benches. He led her into the center, seated her on a bench, and stepped away.

“I’ll wait over there for you,” he said. “That way you will have privacy.”

“You needn’t wait. I can find my way back.”

Horror crossed his face. “I would never leave a lady unaccompanied in the wilderness. I’ll be just over there should you need me.”

He strolled away and made a show of turning his back to her and studying a small tree. This was hardly wilderness, but Collette was glad he had not left her alone. It was late afternoon and the party would end shortly. Already the air had grown cooler and the sun was low in the sky, the last rays filtering through persistent clouds.

She opened the letter in her hands and read.

At first the words were incomprehensible to her. She had to read them three times before her terrified mind could take it in. The letter was ambiguous and mentioned her friend and an unfortunate change in his condition. But she understood well enough.

Her father. He was ill. He’d become sick while in prison and his condition was steadily worsening. The warden of the prison—he must have been the author—wanted to hear from her as soon as possible. She could only imagine that was because her father needed a nurse or the warden wanted her to send funds for medicine.

Send funds! Ha! The man would probably use them to line his own pockets and leave her father to shiver without so much as a blanket or straw pallet. She needed to free her father from the prison. She knew the men who could do it. They had promised her they would release him if she gave them the codes. Her hands shook, rattling the paper violently. She had nothing.

Her father would die in prison, and she would be all alone in the world.

She rose quickly, stumbled over the hem of her dress, and barely caught herself. She had to go, had to do something, had to find those codes! Even if it meant breaking into the Foreign Office tonight. She stumbled out of the gazebo, and Mr. Beaumont turned to face her, the smile on his face fading. “What is the matter?”

“Nothing,” she answered hastily. Even she knew she was unconvincing.

“Something has happened. You look as pale as a sheet.” He caught her arm, and she was grateful for the feel of his warm hand on her. She shivered with cold. “Was it something in the letter?” Beaumont asked. “Please, sit down.” He led her back to the gazebo. “You look unsteady, and if I catch you when you swoon, it will give the other ladies ideas. I simply can’t go through another month of having women fall over every time they see me.”

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.

“Notice what?”

“The change in him.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “The emptiness in his eyes and the haunted look on his face. Later, I would think of that morning and know that the night before was when he’d sold his soul to the devil. I don’t know any details, and my father would never speak of it, but he was a large man, a strong man. He went to those in power and asked for a job, any job. I suspect they had him do away with their political enemies.”

“Everyone says he was one of the best,” Beaumont said softly. “You must know that.”

She lifted her wineglass and watched the light filter through the golden liquid. “No one ever said it to my face, but I heard whispers. My mother and aunt sheltered me from much of it, but when my mother died, there was no one to protect me. My father kept me safe, of course. He fed me and provided shelter for me. In fact, we moved to a better house in Paris. We left the forge behind and moved into a fancy flat, much like this one. My father often worked at night, and I was alone much of the time. I didn’t have any friends. Everyone was afraid of me—not me, of course, but my father. Even then, I didn’t fully understand. I knew my father had a position in the new government, the one under Napoleon Bonaparte. I knew he was an important man and he did not talk about his work. But then I met Marcel.”

Beaumont’s eyebrows lifted. “Marcel? I don’t like him already.”

She smiled. “I did. I liked him too much. Remember, I was all alone. I was desperately lonely. What little education I had I’d gathered from books and my mother’s teaching. But now that my father had funds, he hired me a tutor to teach me the classics as well as music and drawing. Marcel was quiet and shy, like me. I don’t think he took the position with the intention of seducing me, and I don’t think I can even argue that I was seduced. But I was young and he was young, and my lessons gradually turned into something less innocent.”

Beaumont nodded, and though she hadn’t expected to see censure in his eyes, it still relieved her to find it absent. She had made a mistake and knew that it was one that could never be put right. She’d been ruined, not publicly, but ruined nonetheless. She was not the sort of woman any man would ever want for a wife. The most she could hope for was to be some man’s mistress, and she had too much pride in herself to settle for that life.

“Your father found out,” Beaumont said.

“Of course, but not before Marcel told me what he knew of my father. He said half of Paris didn’t consider Fortier real. He was known for his stealth. He could be silent as a ghost and he could slit a man’s throat cleanly with a flick of his arm. That was his preferred method of killing, but he would not argue if Napoleon wanted a man strangled or shot. My father always got his man. Always.”

“He did have that reputation,” Beaumont said, placing his empty wineglass on the table. “We all made sure to steer clear of him when we were in Paris.”

“I didn’t believe Marcel at first. The way he described my father was not the way I knew him. He was always gentle and kind to me and to my mother. I never saw him raise a hand in violence to anyone. He rarely even raised his voice. But when I confronted my father, he didn’t argue.” She wiped the moisture from her eyes. “He said, ‘So now you know.’ And he apologized.” She rose and paced the room. “But he didn’t need to apologize to me, Mr. Beaumont. Because I knew why he’d done it. He’d done what he had to for the money to save my mother. And then when she was gone, he was in too deep.” She stopped before the fire and stared into the dancing flames.

“And what has any of this to do with why you are here now and with the letter? Your father died in the war.”

But she simply stared at him and then very slowly shook her head. “No, my father is alive.”