Two

He was here.

She hadn’t been able to help looking for him the moment she entered the drawing room. She would have chastised herself, but she did not think there was a woman alive who would not stare at Mr. Beaumont. He was simply the most stunning man she had ever seen. Not even the opulent room with its moldings and medallions, its porcelain and purfled vases could detract from the beauty of Beaumont.

“Miss Fournay.”

Collette dragged her eyes away from Beaumont and smiled at her hostess for the evening, Mrs. Saxenby. “How kind of you to come to our little salon.”

Collette curtsied. “Thank you for extending the invitation to include me.”

“You will not be disappointed,” Lady Ravensgate announced. “My dear cousin is quite enchanting, although I fear she may not be able to add much to the conversation tonight.” Lady Ravensgate gave Collette a meaningful look. “She is a cousin from France and does not know much about English politics.”

“Oh, that is quite all right,” Mrs. Saxenby declared. “We cannot all hold the floor. Someone must act as the audience.”

Collette smiled. She was quite content to act as the audience. She had always been somewhat shy and averse to attention, and these traits were valuable considering one of the best ways to gather information was to sit back and listen. Tonight she hoped to find out more about Lieutenant Colonel Draven. Since the ball where they’d danced, she had not seen or heard any news about Draven. But Draven’s secretary in the Foreign Office, a Mr. Palmer, was supposed to frequent Mrs. Saxenby’s salons.

In the three months since she’d landed on the coast of England, in the dark of night and in secret, Collette had made her way to London and sought out Lady Ravensgate, a wealthy widow. She’d been told the widow had been friends with her father, and Lady Ravensgate had certainly treated her like a long-lost daughter. Collette even remembered her father mentioning the late Lord Ravensgate as a man who would help them if she and her father ever needed to escape Napoleon’s France. But so many people had dual loyalties that Collette had learned not to trust. And if the Ravensgates were so loyal, why had her father not fled when the Bourbons had retaken the throne? He must have known under the king he would suffer and be imprisoned for his work for the upstart Bonaparte. Had her father thought the Bourbons would forgive all or did her father not trust Lady Ravensgate as he had her husband?

She wished she could ask him, but he was imprisoned in Paris, and the only way to free him was to bargain with the royalists. That was why she needed the British codes.

“Won’t you have a seat?” Mrs. Saxenby led Collette and Lady Ravensgate to a couch off to the side of the main grouping. In the center of the room several men in crisp evening dress stood discussing a poem Collette had not read. Collette looked down, pretending to study her reticule’s drawstring while she listened. These few moments before the formal discussion began were the best time to glean information, if there was any here to be gleaned, which she rather doubted. Once the program commenced, most of the conversation would stick to that topic.

It was the ideal time for a spy in London. The Season was at an end and most of the key political figures were in the country. But Britain’s security was always at risk, and men like Draven and others at the Foreign Office were still in London.

Collette fingered her drawstring, listened to the voices around her, not hearing anything of substance, and then lifted her head and scanned the room. Her gaze landed on Mr. Beaumont. But then she’d been looking for him, hadn’t she?

As usual, he was surrounded by a wall of women. No fewer than five vied for his attention tonight, and he seemed to entertain them effortlessly. The ladies tittered every few moments. If only she had a reason to believe Beaumont would say something of interest, she might join those women. But Lady Ravensgate had instructed her to pay close attention to William Thorpe, a writer and political satirist, and it just so happened that Thorpe was in conversation with James Palmer, Draven’s secretary. Neither man was half as attractive as Mr. Beaumont, but Collette brought her attention back to them nonetheless. Palmer had a snooty attitude and round spectacles he liked to remove and polish as he spoke. Thorpe was thin and looked hungry as he listened to Palmer discuss poetry.

“Would you like some wine or lemon water, dear cousin?” Lady Ravensgate asked solicitously.

“Wine, thank you,” Collette replied. Her sponsor rose and made her way around the room on the pretense of fetching refreshments for herself and her cousin. In reality, she was listening and collecting as much useful information as she could. But why? Did she have her own agenda or could Collette believe all her efforts were in sacrifice to her father?

Palmer and Thorpe continued to discuss the poem, and Collette found her gaze once again straying to Mr. Beaumont. What was the matter with her? She needn’t pay him any attention. His presence here didn’t signify. She’d had a fleeting moment of worry after he’d been at the last two events she’d attended, but Lady Ravensgate had dismissed her concern. Beaumont was a gallant who went wherever pretty women might be. His intellect, if he had any, was focused on persuading women to join him in bed. He was a former soldier and a war hero, but since returning from the war, his life had been given over to debauchery.

“Not someone you should associate with, my dear,” Lady Ravensgate had warned. Collette detested Lady Ravensgate’s insistence on calling her cousin and dear even when the two of them were in private.

“But do you not think it odd that he is at the same events we have attended?”

“No. With so few social events in London this time of year, everyone is at the same events.” Lady Ravensgate had narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re half in love with him too?”

“No!” Collette had answered far too quickly.

“Good. Because he isn’t chasing after you. Women pursue him, not the other way around. And I’ve yet to see him with the same woman on his arm twice.”

Collette’s face flushed hot now as she remembered Lady Ravensgate’s words. Of course, a man like Beaumont wouldn’t be interested in her.

Except he was looking at her.

Collette’s cheeks heated, and she lowered her gaze. She should be paying attention to Palmer and Thorpe, not staring at Mr. Beaumont like some moonstruck girl of sixteen.

“Well, between you and me, Draven hasn’t relaxed his guard just because the Bourbons are back on the throne in France. In fact, certain communications we intercepted seem to imply…” He turned away from Collette and lowered his voice.

Collette almost swore in frustration. She’d been attending the theater, salons, garden parties, and every other social outing Lady Ravensgate could arrange, and this was the first time she’d heard anything directly referencing coded messages, even if these were not the codes she needed. If the English were intercepting coded French messages, they had to have the ciphers in order to read them. But what did the French communications say? And what would the English response be? It would be a good time to attack as France’s government and political system was in tatters at present. The French would only know the British response if she could somehow obtain the ciphers England used to code its own messages.

Those ciphers would decode the letter her father had entrusted to her as well.

She attempted to calm herself. She had to move closer and find a way to participate in the discussion. She had to determine if Draven himself coded missives to operatives. If so, he was in possession of the British ciphers she needed. She lifted her reticule and began to rise, only to look up and find a tall figure standing over her.

“Miss Fournay?” Mrs. Saxenby stood before her as well, but off to the side. The figure in front of her blocked her path to Palmer and Thorpe.

“May I introduce a dear friend to you? Miss Fournay, this is Mr. Beaumont.”

Collette blinked up at Mrs. Saxenby and then gaped at Mr. Beaumont. She was generally shy around men, especially handsome men, but one look at Mr. Beaumont, and she was speechless. She had glimpsed him across the room dozens of times, but nothing could have prepared her for the sheer masculine beauty of the man standing in front of her. His polished boots rose to his knees, which were encased in tight breeches of ebony. His waistcoat was snowy white with silver thread crawling over it like regal vines. His black coat showcased a slim waist and broad shoulders, while his snowy white cravat highlighted the days’ worth of stubble on his chin. He obviously hadn’t bothered to shave for the evening, and she might have wondered if he’d even brushed his hair. The chestnut-and-mahogany waves curled about his ears and fell rakishly over his forehead.

His splendor rendered her spellbound, and she was struck mute by his eyes. They were a shade of blue that could not be called anything but violet, and they were striking, especially fringed as they were with thick, dark lashes. Collette could have stared at those eyes forever. She desperately wanted to paint them—to see if she could mix just the right paints and match the color perfectly.

Beaumont bowed, and Collette stared at the top of his head, before he lifted it and met her gaze at eye level. He gave her a dashing smile, his eyes crinkling slightly and his lips curving in a most seductive manner. He looked at her as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. As though he knew precisely the sort of effect he had on her.

“Miss Fournay?” The sound of a woman’s voice came from somewhere nearby, though Collette could not have dragged her eyes away to locate the source if her life had depended on it. She could not look away from the handsome man smiling at her.

“I believe it is customary for you to give me your hand at this point,” Beaumont said, his smile never faltering.

Collette heard his words, but she didn’t exactly comprehend them. He had the loveliest baritone voice, not too high and not too low. Exactly perfect.

“Miss Fournay,” Beaumont said.

She blinked and raised her brows at the use of the name she’d almost come to believe was actually hers.

“Give me your hand,” he said.

She held out her gloved hand. He took it and raised it to his lips, kissing the back with a lingering slowness that sent shivers up her spine. And when he should have released her hand and stepped back, he held onto it when he straightened. His gaze never left hers.

“Well, then, I suppose my duty is done,” Mrs. Saxenby said, sounding somewhat miffed. “Excuse me.” And with the silk of her skirts rustling, she walked away, ostensibly to tend to her other guests. Collette could not have said because she was physically incapable of dragging her gaze away from Mr. Beaumont. She should have taken her hand back as well, but she would have as soon dipped it in hot tar than remove it from Beaumont’s gentle hold. Though they both wore gloves, she imagined she could feel the heat from his skin seeping into her own, and just the idea of his bare flesh touching hers made her face flush hotter. She feared her cheeks were red as apples.

Collette had no idea how long the two of them stood there, gazing at each other, hands clasped together. It felt like hours to her and yet like no time at all when he finally released her hand. And then she didn’t quite know what to do with it. She left her hand hanging in midair because it hardly felt like hers any longer.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, indicating the couch cushion beside her.

It was. Lady Ravensgate would return and expect to sit there. But Collette shook her head.

“May I sit beside you?”

She nodded, wishing she could somehow force her lips to move or her voice to return.

“You have not been in Town long, have you?” Beaumont asked. He didn’t seem to require an answer because he went on speaking without waiting for one. “No, I would have noticed you before if you had been here during the Season.”

Collette could not have imagined why. There was nothing special about her—she was shy, average in height and looks, and no one of consequence.

“Mrs. Saxenby tells me you are from France. Lovely country. I spent considerable time there during the war.”

The war. Her father. Collette snapped out of her trance and hastily looked about the room. Palmer and Thorpe were still standing in the middle of the room, but she had no idea what they were discussing. Had they moved on or were they still conversing about the intercepted communications?

“I’ve been wanting to meet you since I first noticed you,” Beaumont was saying. His voice carried over those of Palmer’s and Thorpe’s, and she couldn’t hear what the men were saying. She wanted to move closer, but there was no way to excuse herself and do so without drawing attention. Indeed, when she scanned the chamber she noted that practically every female eye in the drawing room was on her. Even Lady Ravensgate watched her, her expression inscrutable.

“And I think you have been wanting to meet me.”

Collette frowned and glanced back at Beaumont. She hadn’t been wanting to meet him. She’d admired him on occasion—oh, very well, on every occasion—but she hadn’t sought an introduction and had no desire to meet him. He was a distraction, and she could not afford distractions.

“Now is your chance,” he said. “What would you like to know about me? Or perhaps you’d rather take a turn about the room on my arm?”

Collette’s eyes widened. Was the man serious? Did he really think she had been doing nothing but waiting for the chance to hear all about him or serve as decoration for his side? Oh, she did not have time for this sort of conceit.

But she must say something. Even if only a few words to dismiss him. She opened her mouth to say Pray, excuse me. Instead, she said, “Hedgehogs show promiscuous mating behaviors.”

Beaumont’s brows rose, his slumberous violet eyes becoming more alert. “Did you say hedgehogs?”

Collette felt her hot cheeks burst into flames. “Yes. Erinaceus europaeus.” Oh, why would she not shut up? Her mouth seemed to move of its own accord. “The sows and boars do not form pair bonds.”

Beaumont’s lips twitched as though he held back a smile. He had very nice lips. The lower lips was full while the upper lip boasted a decadent indent she would have liked to lick. “What else do you know about the mating rituals of hedgehogs?” he asked.

Rien. Rien du tout! But her foolish mouth did not obey. “Both sexes may have several partners during the mating season.” She would explode. She would burst into a shower of sparks and explode.

“Ah, so very much like the ton during the social Season,” he said. “But I wonder—”

No! She could not allow this to go on.

“Excuse me,” she said, bounding to her feet before she began to spout off about scent-marking. She stumbled forward, feeling almost drunk and desperate to be anywhere but in the presence of Beaumont. Engaging Palmer and Thorpe was but a dream at this point. In her current state, she did not trust herself. It was almost a worse fate to find herself beside Lady Ravensgate at the refreshment table. But at least she was away from Beaumont. She pressed her hands to her cheeks, which felt warm, even through her gloves.

“I thought I told you he was not someone with whom you should associate,” Lady Ravensgate said, holding her wineglass close to her mouth so her lips could not be read.

“I did not wish to associate with him,” Collette answered, her back to the room so she did not have to cover her lips, only speak softly. How she wished for something cool to relieve the heat coursing through her body. “He asked Mrs. Saxenby for an introduction.”

Lady Ravensgate’s thin brows rose high on her forehead, all but disappearing. “Really? That is most curious.”

“It is most inconvenient. I had hoped to move closer to Palmer and Thorpe. I thought I’d overhead something of interest.”

“No time now. Mrs. Saxenby is signaling to begin the discussion.”

Collette sighed. The last thing she wanted was to have to listen to men drone on about an irrelevant piece of literature. Her father was sitting in a cell at this very moment, and she was stuck in a drawing room hundreds of miles away, helpless to save him.

She angled her body so she might appear interested in Mrs. Saxenby’s announcement, and in the process had a view of the couch she’d been occupying.

It was empty.

She searched the room for Mr. Beaumont.

He was nowhere to be found.

Disappointment surged through her, and wasn’t that the biggest annoyance of the evening?

* * *

“What do you mean you have nothing to report?” Draven asked that evening at the club that bore his name. Draven had found the Rafe in the dining room and signaled to him for privacy. Rafe had gone reluctantly. He was not ready to see Draven yet. But he’d joined the lieutenant colonel in a room on the top floor of the club that no one used. From the looks of it, Porter, the Master of the House, stored linens and paintings here.

“Exactly what I said,” Rafe answered. “This assignment is…taking longer than I imagined.”

“Then perhaps you should do more than simply imagine.”

Rafe bit back the saucy retort on his lips out of respect for Draven. “Yes, sir.”

Draven paced, his wild red hair jutting in several different directions. “What have you found out so far? Has she revealed anything to you?”

Rafe rubbed his temple. He’d had a headache all week. That was what came of being forced to converse about poetry and politics for hours on end. “She hasn’t exactly spoken to me, sir.” Unless one counted a litany of facts on hedgehogs. Rafe still wasn’t certain what to make of that exchange.

Draven stopped midstride. “I asked you to find out who she is working for and what she knows. That means you have to do more than take her to bed.”

Rafe clenched his jaw. “Yes, sir.”

“What do you have to say for yourself, Lieutenant?”

Rafe didn’t have a whole hell of a lot to say. He only wished the problem was too much time in bed and not enough teasing information from her. “I’ll do better, sir.”

Draven threw his hands up and paced away. “You will try harder. Is that what I’m to tell the Foreign Office? My man will try harder? What exactly is the problem? Is she that tight-lipped?”

Draven had no idea. And Rafe wasn’t about to tell him that he’d only managed to get a few sentences out of the chit. And most of those made little sense. He knew his progress wasn’t acceptable. He knew his commander expected more. But Rafe didn’t bloody well know what to do. He’d never met a woman like her.

Draven sat, attempting to appear patient. “If you don’t tell me the problem, I can’t help you.”

“There’s no problem, sir. I will have more to report soon.” And he would. This was his chance. He would not fail.

“Report now. I want details.”

Hell’s teeth, but the whole situation was humiliating. Rafe had never needed help with women before.

“That’s an order, Lieutenant.”

Rafe blew out a long breath. “I haven’t bedded her, sir.” That was a detail. Perhaps it would be enough for Draven.

Draven shrugged. “Fine. That’s not part of it anyway.”

Rafe nodded, staring at his hands. He didn’t like what he had to say next. “I may not be able to…er, bed her, sir.”

Draven’s eyes narrowed. “You find her that repulsive? I saw nothing wrong with her.”

“It’s not that. It’s simply that she doesn’t appear interested in me, sir.”

“Are you saying I should get another man? Because I have already tapped you for this.”

“I’m not saying that at all.” Rafe blew out a breath and folded his hands together as though in prayer. “I mean, I’ve lost—” His voice caught in his throat. “I’ve lost my…charm.” That wasn’t exactly the word he wanted. But it was the easiest way to describe the effect he had on women. Or the effect he had on all women but Miss Fournay. “But I swear I will find it again. There must be a way to reach her…”

Draven said nothing for so long that Rafe finally looked up at him. Draven stared at him, brows furrowed together. “I am no judge of these sorts of things, but you don’t look any different to me. You’re still as”—he cleared his throat—“handsome as you always were. Christ, I never thought I’d be saying that to one of my men.”

“Thank you, sir, but my”—he swallowed—“allure is more than looks.”

Draven stabbed his hands on his hips. “What? Am I to list all of your accomplishments? All the reasons the woman should fall, if not in love, in lust with you?”

“Please don’t. I’m merely saying that whatever my accomplishments might be and however pleasing my looks to other women, they do not seem to appeal to Miss Fournay.”

“Beaumont, are you telling me the woman is not interested in you?”

Rafe didn’t answer.

“Are you saying she rejected your advances?”

Rafe winced. “Not exactly.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Draven bellowed, losing his patience.

Rafe had lost his about three days ago. “I wish I knew, sir. She stares at me, blushes when I look at her, and is all but speechless and flustered when I speak to her. And yet she doesn’t try to catch my attention. She never even asked for an introduction! Finally, tonight I approached her and the woman all but swooned when I held her hand, but then she excused herself and walked away. She’s not like any other woman I have ever known.” Rafe gave Draven a bewildered look, hoping the man could understand the situation because Rafe sure as hell couldn’t. “But I will try another tactic. Perhaps it’s my approach…”

Draven stood, walked across the room, and then began to laugh. At first Rafe thought perhaps he hadn’t heard correctly, but no. Draven’s shoulders were shaking and the sounds he made sounded unmistakably like laughter. “You find this amusing, sir?”

“God help me, but I do,” Draven answered, laughter in his voice. He turned, and Rafe was annoyed to see tears all but streamed down his cheeks. “It’s about time you experienced what the rest of us mortals do.”

Rafe didn’t bother arguing that he too was mortal. “And what is that, sir?”

“Rejection by the female of the species.” Draven began to guffaw again, and Rafe had the urge to punch him.

“I am pleased you find all of this so very amusing. I’m certain you and the Foreign Office will have a good laugh.”

Draven sobered. “No, we will not. The Foreign Office won’t be told of this. You will complete this assignment, Lieutenant. You will just have to work a little harder.”

Rafe did not like the sound of that. “This is a woman, not a profession.”

“See, there’s the problem.” Draven pointed at him. “You will have to approach this woman differently. You must woo her, seduce her, court her.”

Rafe balked. “Sir, I have never done anything of the sort, and I do not intend to do so now.” Court a woman? What was next? Marriage? Rafe felt perspiration break out along his forehead.

“This isn’t a suggestion, Lieutenant. This is an order. You will find a way to bring yourself into the young lady’s confidence. The safety and sovereignty of your country depends upon it.”

Rafe closed his eyes. When Draven put matters in that light, how could he argue? “Yes, sir.”

“Very good. What is your plan?” Draven sat and placed his arms on the table, locking his hands together.

“My plan? Right.” Rafe had come in order to form a plan. “Now that we have been introduced, I suppose I will try and speak to her again or perhaps dance with her, although there are precious few balls scheduled.”

“You must find a way to speak with her alone. That will be difficult with the horde of females who follow you to and fro.”

“What do you suggest?” And so it had come to this. He, Rafe Beaumont, was asking for advice on a woman.

“Call on her.”

“Call on…” Rafe felt his throat close. “Call…with a calling card?”

Draven nodded.

“During the hours she is at home?”

“If you would like to be admitted, yes.”

“But everyone will think I am courting her.”

“Exactly. Bring her flowers or a poem you’ve composed. That will make matters very clear.”

“A…a poem?”

Draven burst into laughter. “I was jesting about the poem, but the look on your face. Priceless.”

Rafe scowled. He was half tempted to board a ship for the Continent to escape this mission. But he was weary of traveling. He’d seen enough of the Continent to last him a lifetime.

“If you need more advice, ask Lord Phineas. He knows what to do. Or Lord Jasper. He could tell you.”

Rafe did not believe for a moment Jasper, the man they all called the Bounty Hunter, knew anything about social calls.

“And don’t look so glum.” Draven stood. “There are worse assignments than wooing a woman.” He crossed the room and opened the door.

“Then why don’t you do it?” Rafe called after him.

“Too old and too ugly,” Draven called back.

“Old and ugly,” Rafe muttered. “He’s far too clever to agree to this.” But Draven wasn’t the only one who was clever. Rafe wasn’t one of the Survivors without reason.