“Come with me,” he pleaded.
Her legs shook, and when she finally fell over the precipice, she buried her face into the pillow so she wouldn’t be too loud.
As always, he was careful to withdraw and spill his seed against her backside, a shuddering groan torn from his lips.
She’d wanted it. There was no question, but now that it was over, she knew what a costly mistake it had been.
She waited until he left the bunk and used a towel from the handbasin in the corner near the door to wipe up before she said, “This can’t happen again.”
“Why? I’ve wanted you for weeks, Marianne. I never stopped wanting you.”
“I’ve wanted you every bit as much, but…” Marianne bit her lip. “We both know there’s no future between a lady’s maid and a marquess.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The next morning, Beau was up with the sun. He’d already decided there was no way he could spend the day with Marianne. He’d brought her the books yesterday out of guilt, and today he was happy she had them when he left to go speak to the captain again. Captain Jones was a friend of both his and Worth’s, and the man was well aware that he had a potential traitor on board.
Jones and Beau had made a plan for Winfield to be followed should Beau and Marianne be separated from them somehow when the ship docked in France.
Beau told himself that he’d been working, and needed to focus on the mission. That was why he hadn’t spent time in the cabin with Marianne. But the truth was that he had to reluctantly agree that she was right. He shouldn’t have made love to her last night. It was unfair to her to prolong it. What was it about that woman that made him so insane that he couldn’t stop touching her or wanting her?
She was right. There could be no future between a marquess and a lady’s maid, and more and more of late, no matter how outlandish or impossible it might seem, Beau wanted a future with her. He’d considered asking her if she would be his partner on his next mission. They made a good team, the two of them. He’d never wanted to work with a partner before, but having a female partner did allow for some conveniences, such as pretending they were a married couple.
But marriage? No. That was out of the question. He didn’t even know who she was. He might know her last name, but as far as he knew, she was merely the daughter of a man whose sons were in the military.
There was no way he could make her his marchioness even if he wanted to, and…God, marriage hadn’t ever been anything he’d thought about truly. He supposed he’d need to marry and produce an heir someday, but he’d been so attached to his work, he hadn’t had time to contemplate the sort of life that would be, or the type of changes he would be forced to make as a result.
Now, with Marianne, for the first time, he was beginning to contemplate all of it. And even though on more than one occasion, he’d looked down the barrel of a pistol just before a man shot at him, Beau had never been more frightened.
When Beau returned after dark again, Marianne had finished the brandy bottle. Brandy wasn’t so bad, it turned out, when one had nothing else to drink. Oh, she’d spent much of the day reading. Reading and fantasizing about Beau’s hand on her thigh last night, his fingers making her cry out his name. The images of their lovemaking had flashed through her mind again and again today, making reading slow-going. But she’d still managed to put a decent dent in Sense and Sensibility by the time he returned. She’d enjoyed it. One of the characters had her name.
They finished dinner and it was cleared away before Marianne came over to join him on the bunk. She sat next to him, letting her feet dangle off the side. “You don’t need to speak to the captain again tonight, do you?”
His brow furrowed. “No. Why?”
“Because I want to ensure you don’t have anywhere to run off to before I ask you again why you don’t drink.”
The barest hint of a flinch crossed over his features. “You noticed I didn’t want to talk about it, eh?” he said with a humorless laugh.
“It was quite noticeable,” she replied, nodding.
He’d already removed his boots and he scooted back on the bunk until his back rested against the wall. Marianne scooted back to join him.
“It can’t be that bad,” she said. “You can tell me.” Their hands rested together, their fingers touching on the mattress.
Beau expelled a deep breath and laid his forearm atop his head. “My father drank.” He paused for a moment, staring forward. “To excess.”
The ship swayed and Marianne had to brace herself against the roll, clutching Beau’s shoulder. “I see,” she said solemnly.
The ship righted itself again and Beau continued, “When I was a boy, I promised myself that I would never drink.”
“I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable when I drank,” she said quietly.
“Not at all. Most of my friends do. Worthington and Kendall certainly do.”
Marianne paused for a moment before asking her next question. “Was your father…angry when he drank?”
Beau scrubbed a hand across his forehead. “Very. But mostly toward my mother, not me.”
“Oh, Beau, no,” Marianne said. Instinctively she clutched his hand and squeezed it.
Beau squeezed back. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
“I can understand that,” she replied.
He stared at the wall above the desk again, unseeing. “When I was young, I remember bruises on my mother. Marks on her wrists. I didn’t understand.” He took another deep breath. “But as I grew older, I heard them argue. I would go to her room, try to stop him.”
Marianne swallowed hard. “That was quite brave. How old were you?”
“Seven, eight?” He shook his head. “I came away with a bruise or two, but that wasn’t what I couldn’t stand. I didn’t mind getting hurt myself. I couldn’t stand knowing that I couldn’t stop him from hurting her.” His jaw clenched. Anger flashed in his sky-blue eyes like lightning on a clear day.
Marianne placed her hand on his shoulder. “It must have been awful for you.”
“It was. Until I got big enough to fight back. When I was twelve, I was home from Eton, finally tall enough to fight him.” He shook his head slowly, the memory clearly replaying in his mind with vivid force. “I punched that son of a bitch in the mouth and I told him if he ever laid a hand on my mother again, I would kill him.”
Marianne nodded slowly. “Understandable. Did it stop him?”
Beau rubbed the back of his neck. “He never touched her again.”
“That’s good.”
“It was good…until…” Another deep breath. “On his death bed, my father asked for me. I refused to come.”
Her breathing hitched. “Oh, Beau. I don’t blame you.”
“I never saw him again. My mother told me that he’d wanted to apologize. He’d wanted to ask for forgiveness. I never gave him that chance.”
Marianne shook her head. “You cannot blame yourself for that choice.”
“It was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. Everyone deserves forgiveness. My mother had forgiven him. Why couldn’t I?”
Marianne nodded slowly. “I do know what you mean. The last time I saw Frederick, we argued. He didn’t like the man who was courting me. He didn’t think he was a good choice for me. I’ve wished every day since that I’d had a chance to truly say good-bye. I regret it, too.”
He smiled at her wanly. “But I knew I’d never have another chance. I refused to take it because of my stubborn pride.”
“Thank you for telling me,” she whispered. “I hope you don’t mind my saying that the reason you’re such a good man may very well be because of the pain in your childhood.”
Beau nodded. “Yes, well, my father’s drinking is one reason I understand men like Mr. Broughton. They’ll do anything for the chance to drink. They’re slaves to the bottle.”
“It’s why you’re a spy, too, isn’t it?”
Beau bit the inside of his cheek. “I suppose I’ve
always been preoccupied with justice being served.”
She squeezed his hand again. “It’s not a bad trait to have, Beau. Not bad at all.”
“I suppose it’s time for bed.” He pushed himself off the bunk and turned around while she changed into her night rail. Then she climbed into bed, and he pulled off his shirt. They laid down together on the bunk and he blew out the lantern.
“Marianne,” came his voice in the darkness, “are you truly a lady’s maid? Your real accent, it would be at home in the drawing rooms of the Beau Monde.”
“I’m not a lady’s maid at the moment. I’m a spy. But I’m not a marchioness. Or suitable to be one, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Marianne spent the time as they neared Calais pretending to read, but all she could think about was how their relationship would end.
He’d asked if she was truly a lady’s maid. Well, she hadn’t been one until Lady Courtney had hired her, but then her brother had been killed and she’d met General Grimaldi and been trained to become a spy. She’d been encouraged to take the position with Lord Copperpot because of the suspicions of him being the Bidassoa traitor.
In truth, she didn’t know who she was any more. After her father died, her mother had gone into such deep mourning she scarcely spoke, then she’d died not a year later. David and Frederick had both been gone to war. Marianne had had little choice but to find a suitable position for herself. Fortunately, her father’s friend Lady Courtney had offered Marianne the position of companion while she waited for her own niece to become available.
Marianne had become so single-minded after Frederick’s death that she scarcely remembered any plans before that. At one point, she’d met William. But that had been over quickly. He’d been gone before she’d barely got a chance to get her hopes up for a life with a husband and children. She’d settled back into thinking she would remain a lady’s maid, when the news had come about Frederick.
Her feelings for William paled in comparison to what she’d been feeling for Beau these past weeks. And that’s what made it so frightening. Beau had the ability to crush her heart. For some reason with William, she’d stupidly told herself that their love—a love that didn’t even exist as far as he was concerned—would be enough to overcome Society’s judgement of him marrying beneath his station in life as a knight.
But she’d quickly learned that that had never been true, and never would be true. William had had no intention of marrying her; he’d only used her.
She was not worthy of a marquess and she never would be. And her time with Beau was coming to an end. As soon as they arrested Winfield and Albina, she would be off to look for David, and Beau would move on to his next mission. She would have to leave him soon. It was a thought she didn’t want to contemplate.
That night in bed Beau wrapped his arms around her. “Just let me hold you, Marianne. That’s all I want to do.”
She let him because she wanted him to hold her. She closed her eyes and pretended things were different.
“Marianne, what if we were partners?” came his voice in the darkness.
“No.”
“But why?”
She expelled her breath. He’d shared something difficult and painful with her. She supposed it was only fair that she shared something equally difficult and painful with him. “I’m afraid of getting hurt again. I told you I wasn’t innocent. The truth is that I was seduced by a man who was a member of the ton.”
“What? Who? Who hurt you?” His voice was filled with anger.
“His name was Sir William Godfrey.”
“What happened?” He pushed himself up on his elbow and looked down at her in the darkness, stroking her cheek.
“He told me he loved me,” Marianne continued. “He told me he’d do anything to marry me. But it was all a lot of lies.”
“I won’t lie to you, Marianne. I may have used a false name with you at first. But I would never lie to you the way he did.”
All she could do was nod. He was right, after all. Beau had never said he loved her.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
When the ship docked in Calais later the next afternoon, Beau was ready. He’d removed his pistol from the wardrobe and placed it into the back of his breeches. He and Marianne had packed their bags and had departed before the rest of the ship was allowed to, having been summoned by Captain Jones.
This put them in the perfect place to follow Winfield and Albina. Beau and Marianne were waiting outside a tavern across from the dock when the other couple disembarked.
Winfield and Albina quickly hailed a coach, and Beau and Marianne soon engaged a coach of their own.
“Follow that coach,” Beau instructed the driver in French.
Marianne watched out the coach’s window as they rattled off through the cobblestone streets of Calais. She had changed into a soft yellow gown with a high waist. It was one of only two that she had that weren’t maid gowns.
They’d traveled for less than a quarter hour when the first coach began to slow.
“Keep going,” Beau told the driver. “Turn the corner and come to a stop on the other side of that building.” He gestured to a large warehouse on the corner.
Once their coach rolled to a stop, Beau flipped the driver a coin. “Wait here.”
Beau jumped from the coach and turned to help Marianne down before they made their way quickly to the side of the warehouse. Beau pressed his back against the wall and turned his head, peering around the corner to see if Winfield and Albina had alighted from their coach.
“They’re getting out now,” he informed Marianne.
Marianne nodded and waited for Beau to motion for her to follow him before they both turned the corner and made their way to the warehouse that Winfield and Albina had entered.
Once inside, footsteps above them on the shaky staircase to their right told them that Winfield and Albina were climbing the stairs. Beau and Marianne waited until the footsteps stopped and a door opened.
“Sounds as if they went up three floors,” Beau said quietly.
He and Marianne climbed the stairs after them.
At the third floor, the staircase let out in front of a row of dark brown wooden doors. When he peeked into the corridor, Beau caught a glimpse of Albina’s skirts disappearing through one of the many doors.
Again, he motioned for Marianne to follow him, and they made their way silently to the door and pressed their ears against it in two different spots. Unlike the doors made of solid wood at Lord Copperpot’s town house in London, this door was flimsily constructed, and Beau could hear everything without crouching down to the keyhole.
After a few pleasantries were exchanged in French, Winfield said, “Do you have the money?”
“Do you have zee letter?” came a Frenchman’s voice speaking in heavily accented English.
“Yes. Here it is,” Winfield replied.
There was nothing but silence for a few moments and Beau could only guess that the Frenchman was reviewing the letter Albina had written.
Several moments of silence passed before the Frenchman finally said. “Very well. Everything looks to be in order.”
“Where is my money?” Winfield demanded, his voice impatient.
“I don’t keep zat sort of money here,” the Frenchman replied. “You’ll have to come out to the camp at Coulogne tomorrow.”
“Damn it. You told me you’d have my money,” Winfield insisted.
“I do have eet.” The Frenchman’s reply was terse. “But you must wait for tomorrow. Zere is no help for eet.”
“Fine,” Winfield replied. “Where is the camp?”
The Frenchman cleared his throat and lowered his voice. Beau had to concentrate to understand him. “Two hundred yards northeast of zee intersection of Coulogne Road and zee Andres Highway. Come and meet us. We’ll share a bottle of wine, mon ami. Come after dark, say, nine o’clock?”
“Do I have a choice?” came Winfield’s equally terse reply. “In the meantime, y
ou’ll understand if I just keep the letter.”
Stepping away from the door, Beau motioned for Marianne to follow him again as he returned to the staircase. They’d heard enough. No doubt Winfield and Albina would be leaving the room at any moment.
Beau and Marianne barely had time to make it back to the stairs before the Frenchman’s door cracked open. Rushing into the stairwell, they flew down to the next landing. When they got there, they opened the door and hid inside the second-floor corridor until Winfield and Albina passed them heading back down to the ground floor.
“That was close,” Beau said after the door to the street opened and closed behind the other couple.
“Very,” Marianne agreed before arching a brow. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
They exchanged a look, then Beau nodded. “Baron Winfield is being set up by the French.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Beau and Marianne waited for Winfield’s coach to pull away before they left the warehouse, hurrying back around the corner to their own waiting coach.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“Follow them again, please,” Beau replied.
This time, Winfield’s coach made its way to a small hotel near the docks. Once Beau was convinced Winfield was checking in for the evening, Beau paid the driver and helped Marianne to alight. They gathered their bags and walked around the narrow streets for a bit before finding another hotel not far away. They checked in as Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Baxter.
When they entered the room and Marianne saw that there were two beds instead of one, she breathed a sigh—relief or regret, she didn’t know. One thing was certain, no more awkwardness like their nights on the ship.
“I asked for two beds,” Beau said as if he’d read her thoughts.
“Thank you,” she replied.
“I also ordered a meal to be sent up.”
The Valet Who Loved Me Page 18
