Chapter 27
Brim: (Abbreviation of Brimstone.) An abandoned woman; perhaps originally only a passionate or irascible woman, compared to brimstone for its inflammability.
A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue
Francis Grose
Nick must appear an utter simpleton, flat-footed and flummoxed, as Mariana sailed into the room like a wrathful fury, chest heaving, eyes flashing. But there was no help for it.
“I shan’t be discussed like some pawn in your game of chess,” she stated, coming to a decisive stop before him and Montfort. “I’m a woman of means, both worldly and intellectual, who makes her own decisions.”
“My dear,” Montfort began on a plaintive note.
Nick’s ears perked up. He’d never heard that particular sound emit from the unflappable Bertrand Montfort. This night grew more interesting, and more confounding, by the moment.
“Do not my dear me, Uncle,” she stated, effectively shushing the man.
Nick settled back, perching lightly against the solid oak table at his back. Mariana had seized total command of the room, and he was inclined to let her have it. Anything that upset Bertrand Montfort’s equilibrium was welcome.
The fact of the matter was that he’d been unable to uncover a shred of physical evidence linking Montfort to the assassination plot. But he’d come here anyway with the intention of bluffing the man out and finding out his motive for initiating the entire business. In fact, he’d skipped London altogether for that very reason.
Well, there had been another reason: by avoiding London, he’d thought to avoid Mariana. Clearly, fate had other ideas.
“Let me see if I have this straight, Uncle,” she said. “You sent cutthroats to—what?—murder Nick?”
“They were meant to warn him off the French king intrigue. Nothing more.”
Nick couldn’t help but enjoy watching Montfort squirm beneath Mariana’s wrath and righteousness. Bertrand Montfort had never squirmed a day in his life. “I’m fairly certain,” Nick cut in, “I mortally wounded one of them.”
“They were ruffians,” Montfort dismissed. “They deserved no better.”
“They may have had families who depended on them,” Mariana countered, her attention landing on Nick for a fleeting second before returning to Montfort.
But for Nick that split second of her attention felt like the warm glow of a springtime sun after an overlong winter. Forty-eight hours, give or take a few minutes, was entirely too long to have been without her.
“Ah, my dear,” Montfort began, paternal condescension coating every syllable, “unfortunately that is not the world in which we live. Hard bargains are made, and hard bargains driven home. It’s easy to forget such realities in our paradise of the Folly.”
Mariana’s eyes flashed fire. “Don’t you dare patronize me,” she said, her voice a lowered octave. “I’m coming to know about you, Uncle. The sweet uncle you’ve appeared to be is at disturbing odds with the ruthless operator revealed in Paris.”
Montfort’s gaze swung toward Nick. “Does she know about Bretagne?”
“I know about Percy,” Mariana spoke up, clearly annoyed by the exclusion.
Still, Montfort continued to address Nick. “What does she know?”
Mariana shot Nick an irritated glance before pinning her uncle with an unflinching glare. “I know,” she began, “he’s been part of your spy network these last eleven years.”
A short, surprised laugh sputtered out of Montfort. “My spy network? Percy Bretagne would gnaw off his own hand before he would work for me again . . . or fake his death yet again.”
“Can you blame him?” Nick asked.
“Perhaps not,” Montfort replied with an almost imperceptible shrug.
“What am I missing?” Mariana’s eyes darted back and forth between the men.
Montfort shut his mouth and averted his gaze, leaving it to Nick to put this matter to bed once and for all. Nick cleared his throat. He should have told Mariana in Paris. “Although everyone thought him dead after the Battle of Maya”—He hesitated a moment—“Percy actually suffered from amnesia.”
Mariana’s brows knit together. “Memory loss? Olivia had him declared dead in absentia. Two witnesses testified to having dug his grave after the retreat.”
“Your uncle”—Nick jutted his chin toward Montfort—“knew from the beginning that Percy was alive and began using him to gather intelligence without telling him who he really was.” Mariana’s expression darkened, a sure sign of the storm building inside her. “By the time I crossed paths with Percy in Spain, it had been a year since his death. I felt obliged to do something for him.” Nick hesitated at the memory. He’d never encountered a man more in need of a lifeline. “He needed to know his past . . . who he was.”
“You helped him recover his memory and get away from Uncle by”—Understanding dawned across her face—“faking his death.”
Nick nodded once. The way she spoke the words, as if she’d switched angles and was now viewing him from a fresh perspective, made his insides go light.
“You gave him his life back.”
And now he felt something more . . . something he’d thought long lost: hope.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, attempting to rein in the feeling.
It didn’t work.
It felt as though a tectonic shift had occurred between them, strangely connecting them through its trauma.
“What Percy chooses to do with his life is his decision, but you gave him the opportunity. And you never told anyone,” she finished on a whisper.
Nick intuited what she left unsaid: you never told me. No matter how connected to him she might feel, his deception continued to form a barrier between them.
“I couldn’t betray Percy’s trust. But mostly”—Finally, he was free to tell her every last drop of the truth—“I couldn’t betray his life. I didn’t know—”
Her eyes brightened with epiphany. “What my uncle would do. Who knows what a man who would withhold an amnesiac’s memory from him—an amnesiac who happened to be his nephew-in-law, by the way—is capable of?”
Nick nodded.
“You’ve been protecting Percy all along.”
Nick remained silent, afraid to reply, afraid to move, afraid to break the gossamer spell that held their gazes locked. He detected nascent trust in there.
Montfort shifted on his feet, drawing Mariana’s attention. “Uncle, do I even know you?” she spat. “You not only hid Percy, but you used a sick man to do your dirty work. Are you incapable of empathy or remorse? You owe Percy.”
“I owe Percy? What? An apology?” Montfort sputtered. “For turning a frivolous boy into a man? Percy Bretagne was champing at the bit to make something of himself. I presented him the opportunity he craved. He took it.”
“He may be a man, but what of his humanity?” she countered.
“That is his concern,” Montfort replied. “Every person on God’s green earth has to figure out how to live his or her life. For some”—He held out his hands, palms facing the ceiling. He lifted one—“life clicks easily into place. For others”—He lifted the other—“life is the eternal puzzle.”
Mariana took a step closer to Montfort. “You sent men to murder—”
“Not murder, my dear,” Montfort interjected.
“—Nick,” she pressed. “Why have you betrayed our family?”
“Betrayed our family?” asked Montfort, visibly bewildered. “My dearest Mariana, all I want is your happiness. You are like a daughter to me. This place”—He spread his arms wide—“will be yours one day. I would never betray you.”
“And what of my husband?” she asked quietly. “A betrayal of him is a betrayal of me.”
My husband. Those words filled a space within Nick that he hadn’t realized was empty. The possessive my. And no longer Nick, but a husband. Her husband.
“Here is what will happen, Uncle. Now that you know Percy is alive, and now that Nick has foiled the assassination plot, you will let this entire matter pass.”
“Of course, my dear,” Montfort replied, recovering a dash of his usual sangfroid, “think no more of it.”
“Furthermore”—She paused, allowing the weight of the matter to sink in—“you will retire from Whitehall, thereby leaving your reputation and family intact.”
Montfort’s smug smile slipped a notch. Nick might have to accept that his wife had outmaneuvered them all. He’d never seen anyone put Bertrand Montfort in his place. Yet here was Mariana doing just that. Pride swelled within him. He may have lost her, but he’d once possessed this glorious woman.
“In exchange,” she continued, “I shall remain a niece to you, and my children will stay part of your life.” She inhaled deeply. “This isn’t about you. This is about my children, Aunt Dot, and the unity of the family. I believe you love us, but that your love is sometimes misguided. Mayhap your retirement to country life will help you see that. Otherwise, you will lose family, standing, and reputation. I know the power and reach of a gossip rag.”
Montfort darted a quick glance toward Nick before walking over to a sidebar stocked with crystal decanters of varying shapes and sizes. He very deliberately set out three stout tumblers and poured a few fingers of whiskey in each. “To my retirement?” he asked as he handed out the tumblers.
They raised their glasses in unison and gulped the fiery liquid down. Mariana didn’t even sputter.
“You drive a hard bargain, my dear,” Montfort said, his demeanor sheepish, but not cowed. He would recover from this night. Men like Bertrand Montfort always did.
There were others, however, who weren’t so lucky.
“And what of Percy Bretagne?” Nick asked. He would have an accounting from Montfort before this night was through.
“What of him?” Montfort’s eyes held a challenge within their depths. He flipped open the lid of a cigar box and silently offered one to Nick.
He shook his head, refusing to be distracted. “You won’t pursue him now that his cover is blown?” He wanted an assurance stated explicitly. Mariana had only seen the tip of the iceberg where Montfort was concerned. His ruthlessness ran as dark and deep as the ocean itself.
“I rather expect it will be the other way around,” Montfort replied, snipping off one end of his cigar before striking a match and gently puffing it alight. Cigar smoke reached out and permeated the air with its rich, earthy aroma.
Nick shifted impatiently on his feet. He wanted more from Montfort, whose hands invariably emerged from the messiest of situations spotless. A question plagued him. “Was the Foreign Office involved in the assassination plot?”
“You know the answer to that question.”
“You directed a rogue operation to assassinate a future French king.” Confirmation settled in Nick’s gut. “Why?”
“For England’s security, of course,” Montfort replied. “I thought you of all people would understand that, even if you don’t agree with my methods.”
“How does plunging France into the throes of another revolution keep England secure?”
From the corner of his eye, Nick saw Mariana’s head tilt in curiosity. She wanted to know the answer, too.
“Whitehall has been trying, and failing, to get a constitutional monarchy established in that self-important mess of a country for years.” Montfort shuffled to the library side of the room and settled his massive girth onto a plush leather sofa, allowing an arm to rest comfortably along its spine of shiny brass tacks. Mariana didn’t move to follow, so neither did Nick. He would stand with her.
“Get rid of Louis, Charles, and their cabal of Ultra-Royalists, and we have a shot at French stability,” Montfort continued. “What’s a few years of revolution in the grand scheme? Those nincompoops are going to incite another one at the rate they’re going anyway. Reparations for dispossessed nobility?” He chortled drily. “That will never work. But get a man on the throne with the right ideas—Louis-Philippe of the Orléans branch would like a shot at it—and an understanding of his obligations to those who put him on the throne, and then we’ve really gotten somewhere.”
“Are you speaking of a puppet government?” Nick interjected. “Do you think it even a remote possibility that the French would allow you to influence policy?”
Montfort shrugged noncommittally. “A monarchy limited by a constitution and a parliament is the only long-term solution.”
“What of the short-term effect of an assassination that would change the regime of a nation?”
“What of it?”
“Revolution.”
“Haven’t you been paying attention? There will be a revolt either way. This way, at least, England would have control over the outcome.”
“You’ve completely overstepped the mark.”
“The price for peace is often war,” Montfort said with a finality that brooked no opposition.
Mariana stepped forward, her gaze locked fast onto her uncle. “Have you not considered your own great-nephew, Geoffrey? Did it not occur to you that he could become caught up in future conflicts that would have been a direct result of the plot?”
“Not our Geoffrey,” Montfort replied with a dismissive flick of his wrist.
“Uncle,” she pressed, “every family has a Geoffrey.”
Montfort’s response was a nonchalant sip of his whiskey, and it was all Nick could do to remain in place, to not stride across the room and knock that uncaring expression off his face. A specific sort of madness and an inflated sense of his own importance had overtaken a formerly good man. One had to experience a great deal of evil in the service of good in espionage. Over time, the two twisted together and, for some, became a Gordian knot, impossible to separate.
This was what happened to men who remained in the game too long. And, no doubt, Montfort had been in too long.
“I’ve reached the end of my involvement with the Foreign Office,” Nick said. “I came here tonight to tell you that as well.”
Although he felt the heat of Mariana’s gaze on his cheek, he refused to meet it. Too many unspoken words simmered between them.
A pompous smile curved Montfort’s mouth. “In all honesty, it’s about time.”
“Too late for fatherly concern now,” Nick replied.
“Of course not. It’s been obvious for some time that your stomach for the game on the ground has grown weak. A transition into strategic operations could be arranged.”
Montfort rocked back and forth a few times before hoisting himself off the sofa. He made his ponderous way to the sidebar. “You may be right about retirement,” he conceded. “No hard feelings?” His gaze darted between Nick and Mariana.
“I shall try not to take exception to the fact that you sent cutthroats to my hotel to warn me off,” Nick replied.
“None of that, old boy,” Montfort said on a step forward, landing a jocular slap to Nick’s back. “Just a bit of a scare. No harm done.”
Montfort grabbed a decanter and refilled all three glasses. He pivoted toward Nick. “Good bit of spy craft keeping Percy Bretagne a secret all those years.” To Mariana, he said, “And you, my girl, I couldn’t be prouder of you. You put me in my place tonight better than any grizzled, old professional”—He winked over at Nick—“could have. Well done, my dear.” Montfort raised his glass. “To worthy adversaries and to England.”
Nick and Mariana chose not to join.
Montfort absently set his glass down. “Nick, you will be staying the night, I presume.”
“I . . .” Nick began. “I hadn’t given it a thought.”
“It’s decided,” Montfort called over his shoulder as he made his way toward his stately desk. “Your family are here, after all.” He settled into his chair and leaned forward, his elbows planted on smooth, polished oak. It was clear that he’d regained control of the room. “Now, if you will pardon me, I have a resignation letter to compose.”
Like that, Nick and Mariana were dismissed for the night like a pair of reprimanded children. His gaze slid toward her only to find her looking as incredulous as he felt. Montfort possessed an audacity that he could use to great effect when the moment required it. This was one such moment.
Tilted off-balance, Nick followed Mariana out of the room, her jasmine and neroli perfume trailing behind her, enveloping him in her scent. He inhaled.
The door clicked shut, and he found himself alone with her in the dimly lit corridor, its stillness and silence creating an unsettlingly intimate space. Separated by a few feet, they stood facing one another, awkward and tongue-tied.
“That ended—” she began on a sheepish wisp of a laugh that was gone barely before it was uttered.
“Unexpectedly?” he finished for her.
“Quite,” she replied, her gaze focused on her feet.
A shyness pervaded and paralyzed the atmosphere. Not the sort of social paralysis that belonged to strangers who had never met, therefore had naught to say. Rather the opposite sort of paralysis that could suddenly strike two people who knew each other too well. They had nothing left to say . . . And everything left to say.
Where did one start when faced with the obvious? And it was obvious she felt it, too. For so long, they’d hidden behind carefully constructed defenses. Now those defenses had evaporated into the ether. And here they stood earthbound and stripped down, naked and exposed to one another.
“I’ll be gone before first light,” he said, understanding at once that his words were a test. Of whom, he wasn’t certain.
Her gaze found him, and she blinked once . . . twice. She hadn’t expected those words. Neither had he.
“You will say a good-night to Lavinia?” she asked, her previously steady and assured voice now thin and wavery.
The subject of their children had been a reliable and safe defensive position over the years. Now, it was back. He experienced a dull ache for what was lost.
“Of course,” he said tightly. A bitter note wanted to sound.
Well, he wouldn’t allow it. If she didn’t respond with the imploring stay he longed to hear, he had no one to blame but himself.
“Nick?” came her voice.
His heart caught in his chest. “Yes?”
“Safe travels.”
His heart released, and he nodded once. His body numb with despair—there was no less dramatic way of describing the feeling—he turned his back to her and strode down the hallway, his pace picking up with each step. It was the only option left to him. He must keep walking, placing one foot in front of the other.
Had he only imagined the force connecting them tonight? For a flicker of time in that room, she hadn’t been irrevocably lost to him. He gave his head a shake to clear it.
Imaginings and wishes mattered not. They weren’t tangible. He couldn’t hold them in his hands, or envelop them within his arms. This position of having no control over the present or the future was a novel experience. But it was reality . . . his reality.
He’d played his hand.
And lost.