“It’s not your heart I need,” said Jane, “but a swift carriage. Quickly now.”
But she kept the sword cane in her hand as she followed her old adversary to the door.
• • •
“She won’t come that way.”
Jack’s stepmother stepped out beside him on the large terrace in front of the fortress. All around them, the setting sun painted the sky a brilliant red and purple that only accentuated the jagged cliffs of the isle of Berlengas, jutting out into the sea around them. The wind had risen, slapping the waves into a frenzy. Whitecapped, they dashed themselves against the base of the narrow causeway that connected the Forte São João Batista with the island.
“I know that,” said Jack quickly, but despite himself, his eyes turned again to that narrow and twisting stone bridge, the shadows playing tricks on him, presenting him with the image of a carriage, the echo of horses’ hooves against the stone.
His stepmother was right: anyone would be mad to attempt the bridge at dusk in a high wind. Under the very best of conditions it would be dangerous. And these were not the best of conditions.
If Jane came at all, she would come by sea.
“She will come,” said Jack fiercely. “She knows what she’s doing.”
His stepmother furled her parasol, tucking it under her arm. “Most of the time.” Before Jack could retort, she added in a voice like vinegar, “I care about her, too, you know.”
Jack looked down at the cracked paving at his feet. The last thing he wanted was to have a discussion about his emotions with the woman who had married his father—who, for some bizarre reason, everyone, with the exception of his father, persisted in referring to as “Miss” Gwen.
It didn’t seem to bother his father. In fact, his father was as happy as Jack could ever remember seeing him.
It was very odd thinking of one’s parent as a person. Even odder being introduced, in one fell swoop, to his father’s new life: a wife, a family, albeit a rather amorphously connected family. Miles Dorrington had attempted to explain how everyone was connected, but Jack would have needed a chart to map it all out, and frankly he just wasn’t that interested.
He was more concerned about what was happening with Jane.
The urge to turn his back until his stepmother went away was strong, but the urge to talk about Jane was stronger. “You were her chaperone?” Jack said, the words half lost on the wind.
“Chaperone, second in command.” Miss Gwen rested her parasol point on the ground, frowning out to sea, her eyes searching the waters that separated them from the mainland. “I’ve known her since she was born.”
“Was she always . . .” Jack stuck.
“Maddeningly omniscient?” Miss Gwen gave a sharp bark of a laugh. “Yes. Even as a child. Oh, she hid it well. The girl had good manners. She knew when to keep her mouth shut in adult company. But if you made the mistake of asking! The vicar,” she said with satisfaction, “never questioned her about her catechism again.”
Jack’s throat worked as he looked out across the waves. “How much of a chance do you think she has against the Gardener?”
Miss Gwen didn’t belittle or make light of his concerns. “The man’s twisty; I’ll give him that. And there was a time . . . There was a time when he might have been a danger to her.” She looked shrewdly at Jack. “I take it that is no longer likely to be a concern.”
Was he wearing a sign on his chest? Jack felt like a raw youth caught mooning beneath a girl’s window.
“Jane isn’t the only one who is maddeningly omniscient,” Jack muttered.
“Where did you think she got it from?” But Miss Gwen’s gloat was short-lived. Her eyes narrowed on a speck on the horizon. Leaning forward, she jabbed her parasol at the water. “There! Don’t you see it? Look again.”
Her eyes were better than his. All Jack could see was a pale streak against the dark waves. Slowly it resolved itself into a boat.
“It might be a fishing boat,” said Jack, his voice rusty.
“At this time of night?” Together they craned to see.
Navigating the choppy waters with the skill of long practice, the skipper moored the boat at the base of the fort. Two flights of long stairs led up to the platform. As Jack watched, a lithe figure in boots, breeches, frock coat, and curly brimmed hat swung out of the boat, saying something to the skipper in passing.
It might be Jane, as planned, dressed in the Gardener’s clothes. It was supposed to be Jane dressed in the Gardener’s clothes. Jack cursed the uncertain light that played tricks with his eyes. He couldn’t make out features from this distance; the figure looked like a dressmaker’s doll.
The figure glanced up at the fort and lifted its hat ever so slightly.
The caw of the gulls and the splash of the waves thrummed in Jack’s ears. “There’s something wrong.”
He couldn’t say how he knew, but that wasn’t Jane. She wouldn’t have lifted her hat; she would have waved. The height was right, as was the general build, but the movements were all wrong.
“That’s not Jane.”
“No,” said his stepmother, leaning as far over the side as she dared. “That is Jane.”
Holding his hat with one hand, the man that wasn’t Jane held out his hand to someone else on the boat.
She stepped out of the boat gracefully, holding up the long skirt of her gown with one hand. The white gauze of the gown glimmered even in the fading light, turning her into something out of myth or fancy, the Lady of the Lake rising to give Arthur his sword.
Only the hand she was holding, Jack was quite sure, belonged not to the mythical king of the Britons, but to Britain’s great enemy, the Gardener.
“Him,” said Miss Gwen.
Jack couldn’t have agreed more. Miss Gwen drew the hidden sword from her parasol, holding it at the ready. Jack cocked his pistol, pointing it at the top of the stairs.
A useless gesture, he knew. He couldn’t fire without risking hitting Jane. He could only hope the Gardener wouldn’t realize that.
There had to be a pistol in the Gardener’s hand, behind Jane’s back. That was the only explanation. Why, otherwise, would she be climbing the stairs with him so easily, so gracefully, one hand resting on his arm with an intimacy that made Jack’s finger tense on the trigger?
Jane stepped onto the platform, the wind flattening her sheer skirt against her legs, teasing little wisps of hair out of her topknot. The sleeves of her dress were long and tight, entirely impractical for combat. Pearl earrings glimmered in her ears; her hair had been bound up with a gold fillet. She smelled of rare perfumes and expensive lotions.
“Miss Gwen! Jack.” There was no gun at her back. Looping her skirt over one wrist, Jane dropped the Gardener’s arm and moved forward. “As you see, we have arrived.”
The scent of her hair wafted behind her: not lavender, but French perfume, a scent for seduction. Jack had liked it better when she smelled of sulfur and donkey.
Jack kept his pistol trained on her companion, who was watching them with a slight, mocking smile playing around his lips. The Gardener gave a slight bow. “Miss Meadows. Mr. . . . ?”
“It’s Mrs. Reid now,” growled Miss Gwen.
The Gardener raised his hat. “My condolences to Mr. Reid.”
“Colonel Reid,” Jack said tersely. To Jane, he said, “What in the devil is he doing here?”
The Gardener strolled forward. He held his hands up so that Jack could see he was unarmed. “You have the advantage of me, sir.” He considered Jack critically. “You are not, I think, a Selwick. Who are you?”
The Gardener’s seal swam before Jack’s eyes, red as the setting sun, red as the blood of good men.
“I,” said Jack, “am the Moonflower.”
That, at least, discommoded the Gardener. He narrowed his eyes against the stinging wind. “I t
hought I had you killed in Calcutta.”
“You certainly tried.” Jack leveled his pistol at his old adversary. “Allow me to return the favor.”
“Wait!” Jane blocked Jack’s shot with her body. Slowly he lowered his pistol as she said rapidly, “We have a truce in place. The Gardener has given us the Queen. He wishes to . . . reconsider his allegiances.”
The only thing the Gardener was going to reconsider was his grip on this mortal coil. The man was entirely without morals. He was as slippery as a snake, which frankly did a disservice to reptiles everywhere.
And this was the man whom Jane was bringing into their midst?
Jack looked at Jane incredulously. “And you believe him?”
Jane ignored him. To her former chaperone, she said, “The Queen is in the boat. If you could call someone to take her to an appropriate chamber?”
Miss Gwen gestured imperiously with her parasol to one of the sentries on the battlements, part of the detachment of British marines who were holding the island of Berlengas.
Jack kept one eye on the Gardener, who was watching them all with detached amusement. “Are you sure it’s the Queen in there? He might have the bottom of the boat packed full of grenadiers.”
Jane gave him a quelling look. “The only thing in the bottom of that boat is fish. I checked.”
“Pity.” Miss Gwen gave a little smirk. “I was hoping for men in loincloths.”
Jane eyed her former chaperone askance. “They’re French, not Greek. And it’s December.”
And Jack still didn’t like it. He circled Jane, pacing closer to the Gardener. There was a trick; there had to be a trick. “He might be sending his men after us.”
The Gardener raised his brows, enjoying himself just a little too much. “You could shoot me before they get here.”
“Excellent suggestion,” said Jack, and cocked his pistol.
Chapter Twenty-five
Jane applied pressure to Jack’s arm. He grimaced and dropped his pistol.
“Stop,” Jane said, trying to stare down two bristling men at the same time. “Both of you.”
“Why?” demanded Miss Gwen, retrieving the fallen weapon. “It was just getting entertaining.”
“You,” said Jane, “were not meant to be here.”
Even as she said it, she realized it was a pointless objection. Miss Gwen would be where Miss Gwen wanted to be, whether one had invited her or not. And that wasn’t the main concern. It belatedly occurred to Jane that she had done exactly what she had promised Jack she wouldn’t: she had changed the plan without telling him. Again.
Circumstances had demanded. But that seemed a somewhat weaker argument here, with Nicolas inflaming Jack’s temper just by being himself and Miss Gwen happily fanning the flames for her own amusement.
Silencing her former chaperone with a look, Jane turned to Jack, who was rubbing his wounded biceps. “It’s all right,” she said quickly. “Nicolas is working with us now. For the moment.”
The twilight played tricks with Jane’s eyes, blurring Jack’s features, but she could see his throat work, feel the tension in his shoulders as he said tersely, “Do you trust him?”
Jane pictured Desgoules, sprawled on the floor. “I trust him to look out for his own interests.”
“In that interest,” said Nicolas, in an amused voice behind her, “might we go inside? I am rather fond of this hat. I have no desire to make a sacrifice of it to Poseidon.”
He offered an arm to Jane, but dropped it as Miss Gwen prodded him in the back with Jack’s pistol, making him stagger. “All right. But don’t try anything funny.”
Nicolas glanced back at Miss Gwen. “Is that really quite necessary?”
“Yes,” snapped Miss Gwen, and prodded him again.
Nicolas rolled his eyes at Jane, inviting her to share in the ridiculousness of it. There had, it was true, been a time when she might have smiled back. Right now Jane wished him to perdition.
“We accomplished our mission.” Jane took Jack’s arm as they followed Miss Gwen and Nicolas to the door in the wall, walking half bent over against the force of the wind. “We have the Queen. Surely that is cause for satisfaction.”
“Satisfaction, is it?” Jane could feel the muscles of Jack’s arm tense, hard as iron beneath her fingers. “You smell like a French brothel.”
Was that really to the point? “At least I don’t smell like donkey.”
Jack glowered at Nicolas’s back. “Why is he here?”
She had already explained this. Twice. “Because,” said Jane, as Jack stood aside so she could precede him through the door, “it was easier to move Queen Maria with his connivance than without it.”
She would have liked to tell Jack the whole story—Desgoules, the crosses and double crosses—but Jack’s expression was hard as the rock of the fort. “And what was the price of that connivance?”
It took Jane a moment for the meaning of those words to sink in. It was like a stiletto blow; one didn’t realize one had been stabbed until after the blade was already in place.
Jane struggled with a feeling of betrayal. Sharply, she said, “Not what you’re implying.”
The wind slammed the door sharply shut behind them.
Jack thrust his fingers into his hair. He had, Jane realized, lost his hat, probably on that windy platform above the sea. “I was worried about you.” The words came out half apology, half accusation. “And I don’t trust him.”
“Few do.” There was no reason for her to feel this bewildered or hurt. But she did. Jane tried to keep her voice level. “But you might have trusted me.”
“I did. I do.” The correction was just a moment too late. The words came up out of the pit of Jack’s chest, ragged and raw. “I hate the thought of you together—working together.”
She couldn’t change her past any more than he could. “It was for the best. Should I have risked your life and Richard’s to spare your feelings?”
It was the wrong thing to say; Jane knew it the moment the words were out of her mouth. Jack jerked back as though he had been slapped. “Oh, certainly, don’t let my tender emotions get in the way of your mission.”
He reached to tug down a hat that wasn’t there and clutched at empty air.
“I didn’t mean it that way. I—” Jane stopped, flustered, all too aware that both Miss Gwen and her former lover were watching them with considerable interest. “Shouldn’t someone be seeing to the comfort of Her Majesty?”
Jack took a step back, away from her. “I’ll go. I don’t seem to be needed here.”
But you are, Jane wanted to say, but Nicolas spoke first. “Yes, do, Moonflower. Jeanne—”
He was interrupted by a new voice, a voice that rang off the stones of the guardroom to the fort as only a trained lyric soprano could.
“You,” said Henrietta, regarding the Gardener with the sort of venom usually reserved for people who ignore the queue at lending libraries. “What are you doing here?”
The Gardener doffed his hat. “Lady Henrietta. How lovely to see you again.”
Jane couldn’t echo the sentiment. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Henrietta; Henrietta was like a sister to her, or at least the closer kind of cousin. But she wasn’t exactly the person Jane would have chosen for a sensitive mission to a French-occupied country.
And where Henrietta was . . .
“Hullo! Did I hear voices?” Miles careened into his wife’s back.
Catching sight of the Gardener and his wife’s Medusa stare, Miles prudently backed up a step.
“Does anyone have any port on hand?” Miles inquired of no one in particular. “And perhaps a biscuit.”
Lady Henrietta plunked her hands on her hips. “You’re going to feed him?”
“No,” said Miles, hiding behind his floppy hair. “For me. I feel in need of fortifica
tion.”
He wasn’t the only one in need of fortification. Jane’s simple plan was turning into a French farce.
In an undertone, she said, “What are Miles and Henrietta doing here?”
Jack’s face was as closed as the pages of an uncut book. “Don’t ask me. They are your people.”
“Don’t worry,” called out a voice from the balcony. “I have him in my sights.”
Lizzy gave a cheerful wave, making the crossbow wobble drunkenly.
“Not all my people,” said Jane.
“Ah, yes,” said Jack. “That. Did you ever think to mention that you were assigned to retrieve me? Trussed, not bound.”
Colonel Reid ventured out beneath the balcony. “Lizzy, my love, why don’t you put that down and join us?”
Jane turned resolutely away from Lizzy and her crossbow. “I never—” Jack gave her a hard look. Jane reconsidered her answer. “Well, yes, I was meant to ask you to visit your father, but certainly not against your will.”
“No,” said Jack, his eyes opaque as centuries-old amber. “You had only to persuade me.”
The memory of the hot spring wavered between them, the smell of sulfur, the mist in the air.
“Not like that. Never like that.” Jane gathered the remaining shreds of her dignity. “I never wanted— Miss Gwen asked me to convey the request. I was of two minds. I didn’t know you. And when I did know you . . .”
Jack folded his arms across his chest. “What?”
“It wasn’t my choice to make.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, all the noise and commotion around them fading to nothing. A muscle pulsed in Jack’s cheek.
Jack gave a short, sharp nod. “Thank you.”
Jane felt as though she had been through a wringer. Limp with relief, she said, “I had thought we would have more time—time to tell you myself, before—”
“Jane? Jane!”
“What?” Both Jack and Jane turned at the same time.
The Lure of the Moonflower Page 32
