Napoleon's Woman

by Samantha Saxon

  "Yes, I believe that’s correct," the young lord said, anxious to be getting on his way.

  "And who have we here?"

  Falcon turned his eyes on Celeste with no recognition and no hint of the steely intelligence she had witnessed throughout their meeting just last night.

  "This is Lady Rivenhall, my lord. If you will excuse us?"

  Celeste curtsied, pleading with her eyes. "My lord."

  "Charmed," the old man said, patting the Earl of Wessex on the shoulder as he began to walk with them down the congested corridor where the Foreign Offices were located. "I was just coming to have breakfast with my nephew. Would you like to meet him?"

  "I’m very sorry, my lord--"

  "Here we are," the old man sang, completely ignoring the earl’s protests.

  Falcon ushered them into an empty office that Celeste knew was not his own. The old man slapped his hand on the oak desk in the first display of temper she had ever seen in the decorous gentleman.

  "What in God’s name are you doing here?"

  The earl’s brows furrowed when he realized that the elderly lord was not speaking to him, but to her.

  "Lord Wessex forced me to accompany him. He is quite determined to turn me over to the authorities."

  "Damnation, boy," Falcon barked. "I told you the matter of Lady Rivenhall was being addressed. You’ve no idea of the damage you have done."

  The stunned earl looked first to Falcon and then to her as the old man settled in a wing-backed chair.

  "Sit down," he ordered, pointing to the settee, but the young lord did not move quickly enough. "Sit!"

  Dumbfounded, the earl sat.

  "Well, Wessex, it would appear there is nothing to be done but explain the entire situation."

  "He will not believe you," Celeste warned.

  "My dear, Lord Wessex is not the sort of man to allow emotions to cloud his judgment. He will assess the matter properly once our position is clarified," the older man said with unwavering certainty.

  The earl concentrated on Falcon, prompting him to speak.

  "Lady Rivenhall works for me as an English collaborator obtaining information from the French and sending said information across the channel."

  Lord Wessex glanced at her, clearly skeptical. With the deference appropriate for an elder, he said, "If you will forgive me, my lord, Lady Rivenhall has a way of making men believe what they wish to believe."

  "Quite, which is precisely why I recruited her. Lady Rivenhall has been passing vital information to this office for the past four years."

  Celeste could feel the earl’s eyes on her, but she stared at the intricate designs in the cerulean carpet, unable to bear his revulsion at the things she had been forced to do.

  "She…Lady Rivenhall is an English agent as well as Napoleon’s mistress?"

  "Yes." The old man nodded. "Our most highly placed operative. Lady Rivenhall has given us the names of Napoleon’s most trusted advisors as well as passing French battle plans for Fuentes de Onoro and Albuera."

  The earl’s head snapped round so that he could look at her, and then he bolted from the settee and walked toward the window with long, elegant strides. He planted his palms on the windowsill and bent his head. His broad shoulders rose and fell with his increased breathing as Falcon continued his verbal assault.

  "Yes, my lord, if not for our Lady Rivenhall you would have died on that peninsula. Not to mention your escape. Who the hell did you think gave you that key?"

  Wessex stared out the window, his back to them as he said, "That does not explain why the woman is in England."

  The woman. The indifference of his words stabbed at her heart, making her wince.

  "The Foreign Office has uncovered a traitor, I’m afraid. The man has been passing information to the French for several months. We’ve managed to narrow the list of suspects to five peers, and Lady Rivenhall has been asked to investigate them before Lord Wellesley launches an all-out assault on the peninsula in two weeks’ time."

  "How did she explain her absence to Napoleon?"

  The old man chuckled. "As you say, the girl makes a man believe what he wants to believe. Lady Rivenhall managed to convince the Emperor that it was his idea to send her to England in order to acquire information for France."

  Celeste’s eyes remained on the earl’s back as she willed him to understand.

  "And these five men, one was Lord Elkin?" Wessex asked.

  "Yes," the old man sighed. "Made me angry, that. I was meeting with Lady Rivenhall at the time." Falcon paused in contemplative silence. "I always liked that boy. Never mind, best way to avenge his murder is to find the bastard who did it. Lady Rivenhall has two weeks to investigate the remaining lords, and you are going to help her."

  "What?" Aidan spun round, his question a rush of air.

  Celeste closed her eyes, trying not to hear the note of aversion in his voice and trying not to feel the pain of it.

  "My boy, we are running out of time. And, quite frankly, the girl needs assistance."

  "Not mine," the earl said bitterly as he made for the door, but Falcon’s next words stopped him cold.

  "Then you intend to allow this man to pass information that will most assuredly lead to the death of thousands of English soldiers---men you fought beside?"

  "Don’t," Wessex hissed, his hands balled into fists, "speak of things you know nothing about!"

  "Ah, but I do know of the losses on the Peninsula, my lord. I lost a grandson at Vimeiro, and I will be damned if I will allow other men to die because I have not done my duty to the Crown."

  Celeste’s mouth hung open as the two men stared at one another.

  "Find another man," the earl said and then, looking into her eyes, added, "I’ve done my duty."

  Celeste felt as though he had struck her. She sat, unable to move, as the young earl turned and departed the small office with a slam of the door.

  "Wessex will come ‘round, my dear," the old man said with the utmost tenderness. "How long have you been in love with the boy?"

  "What?" Celeste looked up. "I’m not in love with Lord Wessex."

  Falcon graced her with an indulgent grin. "My dear lady, I have not been given this post by coincidence." The dignified gentleman rose on shaky legs. "You are in love with the Earl of Wessex, and have been for quite some time."

  "I most assuredly am not, my lord, but it does not signify as I prefer to work alone."

  "I’m sure that you do, Celeste, but after the events of last night, I’m afraid I cannot allow it."

  "A Bow Street runner, then?"

  The old man offered her his arm. "I’m sorry, Celeste. Your fates seem destined to intertwine."

  "And how do you plan to convince the earl of that, my Lord Falcon?"

  The stately man chuckled. "I, my dear lady, plan to win an intriguing game of chess."

  ***

  The Earl of Wessex spent the day in a daze. He had ridden his horse mercilessly all afternoon and now found himself staggering up the steps of Manton’s.

  "Good day, my lord. Would you like your regular range?"

  "Yes, Alfred," Aidan said as he was led by the footman to his customary position at the far end of the row. He nodded to Lord Deaver on his left, and removed his riding gloves.

  The servant returned with the box containing Aidan’s dueling pistols. He removed the weapons from their red velvet casing and took a moment to admire the quality of the craftsmanship. The sterling silver mechanisms had been polished to perfection by the man that now loaded the first of two pistols.

  "My lord," the man said simply as he handed the loaded weapon back to Aidan, who then lifted the firearm and with steady aim hit the target dead center. Unfortunately, the target happened to belong to Lord Deaver, who looked at the crack shot Earl of Wessex with a raised brow.

  "Sorry, old man." Aidan reached for the second pistol, taking time with his aim. He squeezed the trigger, hitting the wall a good two feet above his own target.

  "
I must say, my lord, you are by far the worst shot that I have ever had the misfortune to witness." Aidan rolled his eyes and turned toward his sarcastic brother-in-law standing just behind him. "You do, of course, realize that you are aiming for the black mark at the center of the target?"

  "Yes, Your Grace, and if you would do me the honor of sodding off, I could get back to my amusement."

  "I don’t think that is a sound decision, my lord."

  "Why the bloody hell not?"

  "Well, firstly, from the smell of scotch wafting from within five yards of you, I would say that you have little chance of hitting the broad side of a landau, much less your target. Secondly, I believe you have frightened Lord Deaver here."

  Lord Deaver grinned, saying, "Damn right. Thought I would have to duck that last round."

  "So, dear brother-in-law, I have come to fetch you for dinner, assuming, of course, that you are able to eat."

  Aidan looked up at the silvery eyes of the Duke of Glenbroke. "Far be it for me to reject such a gracious invitation." He turned to the footman. "Thank you, Alfred. I believe that will be all for today."

  "Thank God," the duke said. "Now." The oversized man squeezed his shoulder. "Can you walk or shall I carry you?"

  "Why the hell my sister married you, I shall never fathom."

  Gilbert de Clare chuckled, agreeing, "Nor shall I."

  ***

  The two men sat several hours later watching the Duchess of Glenbroke withdraw from the dining room. Aidan called for his third cup of coffee, and when it was brought the duke dismissed the six footmen with a wave of his hand.

  "You knew, didn’t you?" Suppressed rage vibrated in Aidan’s voice.

  "Yes," the duke said. "I would have told you if I could have, Aidan. But it was done to protect Lady Rivenhall."

  Lord Wessex’s forehead knotted in anger. "And I suppose my following an English operative was very amusing for you both."

  "Aidan--"

  "And your suggestion that I seduce her…" He shook his head, unable to continue as regret and shame overcame him. "Have you any idea what you have done to me, Gilbert?"

  The duke leaned forward on his muscular forearms. "What would you have me do, Aidan? Initially, I was unaware that Lady Rivenhall was working for England. I needed to identify her contacts, but you were determined to expose her. I merely gave you a reason not to."

  "And that is why you suggested I bed her?"

  "Yes."

  "Damn you, Gilbert," Aidan said, gripping the side of the table while his jaw pulsed in rhythm with his anger.

  His brother-in-law waited, allowing Aidan’s temper to cool. "Lady Rivenhall needs--"

  "No!"

  The duke’s notorious temper flared. "You owe the woman your life, Aidan, and now that this traitor has turned to murder you leave her unprotected?"

  "Why me?"

  "You already know who she is, the importance of her mission. The fewer people that know of her existent the more likely she is to succeed. Why are you so resistant?"

  Aidan exploded out of his chair, knocking it to the floor. "Leave it, Gilbert."

  The duke’s initial confusion faded and was replaced with steely determination. "Very well, Lord Wessex. I believe your commission as a lieutenant in His Majesties service does not expire for two months, is that correct?"

  "You bastard."

  The duke rose to his feet and removed a sealed document from the pocket of his blue jacket, raising it in Aidan’s direction.

  "I hereby order you on behalf of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent to assist Lady Celeste Rivenhall in the performance of her duties until notified otherwise."

  Aidan snatched the missive and crushed it in his hands. The royal seal crumpled into several pieces that fell to the polished wooden floor of the immense dining hall. He turned for the door when the duke’s words resounded in the room.

  "You will be contacted when you are needed."

  Aidan spun ‘round and gave an exaggerated bow. "How thoughtful of you, Your Grace. I shall be breathless with anticipation."

  Gilbert de Clare stared after his brother-in-law as the man slammed his dining hall doors with such violence the sound echoed throughout the room. He sank down on the cushion of his chair and lifted his cognac to his lips.

  The door opened gently and his wife walked toward him. "From the manner in which my brother left, I take it the interview did not go well."

  Gilbert raised his hand to her and pulled Sarah between his thighs. "No, I’m afraid not," he said, resting his head against his wife’s chest as his arms slid around her waist.

  She smoothed his hair back and kissed him on the forehead. "It’s not your fault, Gilbert. Aidan will recover."

  "No," the duke said, kissing the swells of his wife’s breast. "I don’t think he will."

  Sarah clicked her tongue in indignation and pushed on his shoulders so that she could see his face. "Why on earth would you say such a thing? Of course he will come ‘round. Lady Rivenhall saved his life, after all. He just requires a few days to get over having been deceived, that is all."

  "No." Gilbert pressed his lips to her neck.

  "Why not?"

  "I’m afraid your brother has fallen in love with Lady Rivenhall." He was kissing her breasts again, and his right hand cupped the tantalizing mound in his palm.

  "How do you know?"

  "Because, my dear, that is precisely the same look I had when you were driving me wild with wanting."

  Gilbert pulled her in his lap and ended their conversation with a searing kiss before taking his wife upstairs and worshiping her with his body.

  ***

  "How is she?" Sarah’s dark brows were pulled together with concern.

  "Not well," Juliet sighed. "She has not left her bedchamber for three days. I’m afraid she blames herself for Lord Elkin’s murder."

  The duchess sighed, asking, "How could she possibly blame herself?"

  "Lord Elkin proposed to her that evening, and when she refused his offer, he made his way to Whitehall."

  "But he might have planned to go to the Foreign Office either way."

  "I know."

  Their voices became a murmur when Lady Appleton stepped away from the bedchamber door. Felicity looked at the breakfast tray that had been brought two hours earlier, and her stomach lurched.

  How could she not blame herself for John’s murder? The fact remained that if not for her, Lord Elkin would not have gone to that building, to that room. She slipped back into bed and pulled the counterpane over her head to block out the offending morning light. Unfortunately, it did not block her last words to John Elkin from her memory. He had poured his heart out to her, and once again she had crushed him.

  Why hadn’t she accepted his offer? Why hadn’t she had the courage to say yes and make her dear friend her husband?

  Felicity felt the tears begin again. She pulled her knees to her chest and let them fall, wondering if she would ever be able to forgive herself. However, she was brought out of her grief by the sound of a small crack.

  Lady Appleton sniffled and sat up, unsure if she had heard something. She listened and a few moments later heard a second clatter coming from the direction of the window.

  She walked toward her balcony at the back of her London townhome, and saw a yellow hatbox with silk flowers adhered to the lid. Confused, and more than a little curious, Felicity opened the French doors and bent down to the retrieve the gift.

  She brought the box to her bed and opening it. Inside on a white muslin cloth sat a tiny orange kitten with an indigo satin bow tied round its neck. The kitten blinked against the light, displaying big blue eyes.

  Felicity picked up the minuscule cat and was amazed by the delicacy of the animal’s ribs. She brought the kitten to her cheek and smiled at the smell clinging to its soft fur, new and fresh and innocent.

  The kitten gave a tiny meow and Felicity smiled in spite of her black mood. She placed him back in the box, noticing a note folded in ha
lf that leaned against the side of the package. Felicity picked it up, opening it with one hand so that she could stroke the kitten under the chin with the other.

  The letter had only a few lines of script.

  A few weeks ago this animal did not exist and in a few short years he will no longer be with us. Therefore, it is your responsibility to enjoy the time you have together, and cherish his memory when he is gone, for the time of his passing is not of our choosing.

  Tears flooded her eyes, and although the letter had no signature, Felicity would have recognized the cramped handwriting of Lord Christian St. John anywhere.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Lady Rivenhall was seated to the right of Lord Ferrell at the Dowager Duchess of Glenbroke’s dinner party, as previously arranged.

  His head was turned as he spoke to a plump young girl with crooked teeth and spots on her face. "Lady Davis," she heard him say as the dark man bobbed his head, and Celeste knew that he was turning to make his introduction to her.

  She pulled her gown to tighten the bodice against her breasts and smiled with a touch more than polite interest, but less than seductive intent. However, she was unprepared for the impact of his stunning smile when he recognized her.

  He turned toward her like a man who was comfortable with his body and said, as if they had never been introduced, "Lord Anthony Ferrell. How do you do? No walkway mishaps, ruined parcels or twisted ankles, I trust."

  Celeste glanced at the deep cleft in his strong chin and then at his dark eyes. They were brown and surrounded by lashes so long and thick any woman would envy them. His golden complexion contrasted starkly with white teeth, and she could see that he was enjoying her perusal of his all too handsome features.

  "Lady Celeste Rivenhall. And no, Lord Ferrell, since our inelegant introduction on the Pall Mall, I have remained blessedly intact."

  His dark eyes flared to a deep brandy and his smile broadened as he said, "Yes, you have." His gaze drifted down her body and back to her face in a not so subtle assessment. "You’re even more beautiful than when last we met, Lady Rivenhall."