Napoleon's Woman

by Samantha Saxon

  She attempted to scream, but a large hand muffled her cry. "I only wish to speak with you, Lady Rivenhall," the man said, blindfolding her. "I believe I told you that I would contact you again."

  Celeste stiffened, her mind racing as she felt the silky cloth tighten against the back of her head. Lord Ferrell was in custody? Could they have made a mistake? She strained to see as the man turned her to face him, but her sight remained as dark as the moment.

  "I must say I admire your technique. If you are able to satisfy a rake like Wessex then you must be very skilled indeed." The man’s tone was appreciative, and Celeste had no doubt he had seduced many ladies of the ton.

  "Is that how you retrieve your information, my lord?" Celeste drawled in her most superior tone.

  "The majority of the time, yes." The man pushed her against the door and she was surprised by how solid he was. "I do so enjoy obtaining the information, and from the way Wessex made you moan, Lady Rivenhall, I take it you do as well."

  A wave of nausea came over her as she imagined this man listening to her intimacy with Aidan. She fought it back, determined to know who this man was and what he had to offer.

  "What do you want?" she asked, ignoring his advance.

  "As I said in your bedchamber, I would like to join forces. With your powers of persuasion and my connections, we would be able to target certain individuals that would prove quite useful."

  "Divide and conquer?"

  "Collude and profit."

  "I do very well alone, my lord."

  He chuckled, and she could feel his breath on her cheek, his eyes on her body. "Yes, I’m sure that you do, but why do twice the amount of work when we could share resources?"

  The question hung in the air. "No," she said finally, pushing against the wall of his chest with the palms of her hands.

  The man did not budge, saying "Before you issue a hasty refusal, my lady, you should consider that I am on the verge of uncovering information that will make me a very rich man."

  "Then why do you need me?"

  "You have the ear of Napoleon himself. I want the emperor told that it was I who uncovered Wellesley’s battle strategy."

  Celeste froze, unable to take air into her lungs. "You’re lying."

  "I shall have the admiral’s invasion plans by the end of the week."

  Her heart was racing as she imagined the men who would die if this traitor were to succeed. "The emperor would reward you handsomely for such information."

  "And you, Lady Rivenhall." He leaned closer, the heat of his lips hovering over hers. "Will you reward me?"

  Celeste raised her chin and played the part she had played for the last four years. She sneered, saying, "I’m the paramour of an emperor, not an Englishman."

  "And the Earl of Wessex?"

  "Is useful," she finished.

  "Yes, I believe I heard how useful the young earl was to you. Very well, we shall meet tomorrow evening, eight o’clock at the ruins at Holborn."

  The man was no simpleton. The ancient ruins stood at a barren hilltop, and anyone approaching would be seen instantly. She would have to consider her options carefully.

  He continued. "I want five thousand pounds a year and an estate in France in exchange for Wellesley’s tactics and departure dates."

  "I shall need to authenticate the information."

  "I would expect no less, Lady Rivenhall. And do bring the required documents from your lover or you shall leave empty-handed."

  "I would expect no less, my lord Lion."

  The man chuckled. "Well done, Lady Rivenhall, very well done." She felt his fingers against her cheeks. "I’m pleased that you realize with whom you are dealing," he said, dropping his fingers to caress her forearm until he held her hand. "Until tomorrow," he said, pressing a kiss to the back of her glove.

  Celeste heard the click of the parlor door and she struggled to remove the blindfold. She yanked the door wide, desperate to catch a glimpse of this traitor as she stepped into the dim hallway, but it was already empty and she remained unenlightened. Her brows furrowed as her mind bounced about like dandelions in the wind. Music from the ballroom drifted toward her as she slowly made her way down the corridor.

  What was she to do?

  If she told Aidan of the liaison he would insist upon accompanying her, endangering himself as well as the outcome of the meeting. Falcon--she would speak with Falcon. The old man would be concerned for her safety, but he would understand the importance of keeping this information from France, no matter what the individual sacrifices. Aidan would not be objective. And while he may not love her, his offer was proof of his desire for her safety.

  His offer!

  Celeste flew down the stairs, panic constricting her throat. She searched frantically for her fiancé, and then they saw one another through the crush. Aidan smiled, and her heart lurched. He looked up, nodding as she reached his side. Celeste followed his eyes up the curved Italian marble staircase.

  The Duke of Glenbroke stood with champagne glass in hand, waiting for the ton to gather round so that he might announce their betrothal.

  "No," she whispered. If the traitor knew that they were betrothed, knew that they were aligned… "Stop him, Aidan," she said, turning toward her fiancé.

  He laughed, assuming she was jesting until he saw the panic in her eyes. "What are you--"

  Celeste placed both hands on his forearm. "You must stop him, Aidan. Please."

  Confusion and hurt gathered in his stormy eyes.

  "Ladies and Gentlemen, I would like to thank you all for coming here this…"

  She swallowed her tears as he stared down at her, his mouth a grim line. "Aidan, you must stop him from making the announcement. Please, Aidan. Please."

  "As you know, the duchess and I have been happily married for over a year…"

  Aidan did not move, and Celeste released him, making for the staircase. He grabbed her upper arm, saying, "Very well, Lady Rivenhall."

  "However, tonight we would…" The duke paused as Aidan ascended the staircase. The enormous man tilted his head and Aidan whispered in his ear. Gilbert’s brows rose ever so slightly and he straightened with a bright smile spreading across his features.

  "We would like to welcome you to our home and thank you for your generosity and friendship throughout the past year."

  The crowd clapped and smiled indulgently as the duchess joined her husband at the head of the stairs. He whispered in her ear, and she smiled brightly, looking out over the crowd. When her eyes settled on Celeste they stilled, and her smile seemed to fade. Celeste’s chin quivered, and she turned, pushing her way toward the front entrance.

  She was waiting for her cloak when Aidan reached her, pulling her into the cloakroom. "Get out," he snapped at the footman. The man bowed and left them amongst the silks and furs. Aidan turned on her, anger burning in his green eyes. "You were leaving?" His voice shook with fury and betrayal. "You end our betrothal after…after…"

  He closed his eyes and took several calming breaths, pain clearly etched on his handsome face.

  "Aidan," she said, placing her hand to his cheek.

  His eyes flew open, and he seized her arm. "Don’t…touch me," he grated clenched teeth. "Am I allowed the honor of an explanation, Lady Rivenhall? Or was I to guess, as I watched your carriage retreat down the Pall Mall?"

  Tears welled in her eyes as she ached to confide in him, to comfort him and to be comforted by him. But she knew that he would try to protect her, that he would follow her and endanger the mission.

  "I find that I need more time to consider your suit."

  He pulled back as if she had struck him. She watched confusion and pain harden into bitterness. "Take all the time you need, my lady." He leaned forward so that they were eye level with one another. "For the offer will not be made again."

  Aidan waited to see that he had hurt her as much as she had injured him before exiting the cloakroom with a resounding slam of the small door. Celeste sank back against t
he greatcoats and wraps, covering her face. ‘You have given enough’, he had said, but it seemed that she would have to sacrifice the only thing that had ever mattered…him.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The Earl of Wessex awoke at four o’clock Thursday afternoon, the result of having imbibed in the solitude of his study for the majority of the evening.

  Aidan was submerged in a hot bath, his head threatening to split open at any moment, when his washroom door did. The Duke of Glenbroke strolled in and sank into a small chair, which looked even smaller as the enormous man balanced himself on the spindly golden legs.

  "Right. What is going on, Aidan? I was forced to listen to your sister’s conjecture all evening, and I refuse to do it again tonight."

  Gilbert leaned back with his arms crossed over his chest and Aidan knew the man would not leave the room without an explanation. The only difficulty was that he did not have one.

  "I haven’t the foggiest notion."

  Gilbert’s luminescent eyes narrowed, and his arms fell to his sides. "What do you mean, you don’t know? You’re in love with her, aren’t you?"

  Aidan shrugged. "Lady Rivenhall ended our engagement, not I." He ran his hand through his wet hair, admitting to himself, "And, yes, I am in love with her."

  "Then go and get her," the duke said, as if the woman were the London Gazette.

  Aidan lifted his arms from beneath the surface, splashing water onto the carpeted floor.

  "And just what am I to do, Your Grace?" he asked with irritation. "Drag her to the altar?" He lay back and placed a cloth over his eyes. "I’ll not beg a woman who doesn’t want me."

  Although Aidan could not see the man, he could feel the duke studying him.

  "If you love her, Aidan, you should drag yourself across hot coals to make her your wife, or you will regret it for the remainder of your days."

  Aidan did not remove the cloth from his eyes for fear that the duke would see the depth of his despair. "Thank you for dropping in, Gilbert. Close the door on your way out."

  The duke remained several more moments and Aidan knew he wanted to say more. But what else was there to say? He had made an offer and she refused him. It had happened to many gentlemen before him. Aidan removed the damp cloth from his eyes and stared at the silk-covered walls. His pride had been bruised, but would eventually be recovered.

  But as he remembered holding her in his arms, he wondered if his heart ever would.

  ***

  Lord Wellesley’s clerk had made his way to the front steps of Whitehall when he remembered that he had not brought one of the estimates needed for his meeting with his lordship.

  The admiral preferred meeting over a leisurely luncheon in the privacy of his home, which made it damned inconvenient for Woodson. He had spent the majority of the morning pulling files and organizing the documents requested by Lord Wellesley, and inevitably he had forgotten one.

  The small man muttered a curse and turned back toward his office. He was running through a mental checklist, considering what other items may have been left behind, when he entered the small room and stopped in utter surprise.

  His large friend stood with his back to the door and his hands in the cabinet containing the files. He would disarrange them, Woodson thought with irritation, and then asked, "What are you doing?"

  The dark man turned with a devastating smile that never ceased to paralyze him with its sheer beauty.

  "Woodson! There you are. Been looking for you everywhere; thought we might dine together."

  The clerk’s brows furrowed as he stared into the striking eyes of his handsome colleague. "But you knew that I was meeting with Wellesley for luncheon."

  The tall man chuckled and came around the desk, draping his arm over Woodson’s shoulders. The clerk could feel the man’s power in every muscle of his bulky arm and chest.

  "Not luncheon, old man, dinner."

  "Oh, well, yes." Woodson attempted to think. However, it was difficult when he was so near a man of such masculine perfection. "But why were you looking in my files?" he asked as he set down the documents in his hands and went round to retrieve the estimate he had forgotten.

  "Just curious," the dark man said, and then stood behind him, planting one hand on the wall to the right his head. "I thought we might go to that pub down by the docks."

  Woodson’s heart was pounding, and he closed his eyes in a futile attempt to steady it. "Why…Why do you want to go all the way down there?"

  The handsome man leaned down and whispered in his ear, his hot breath causing gooseflesh up and down Woodson’s arms. "I think you know why. The same reason I was there the first time."

  Woodson could scarcely think, scarcely believe…but the man continued, "And if I miss my guess, we will do very well together."

  The clerk tried to answer, but all of his thoughts were focused on remaining upright.

  "Midnight. Will you come?"

  Woodson managed to nod, and the heat of the man left his back. He heard his door close, and it was several more minutes before his breathing became regular. He picked up the documents on his desk and made for the door, but with each step his mind cleared and his brow began to furrow. And by the time he reached Wellesley’s home, it was an all-out scowl.

  Lord Wellesley was enjoying a plate of kippers when the clerk entered the room with a deep bow. "Have you brought everything, Woodson?" the man asked, motioning to a chair on his right.

  "Yes, my lord."

  Confused by his assistant’s tone, the admiral looked up, saying, "What the bloody hell’s the matter? You appear as though you’ve eaten a rotten egg."

  "I don’t know. That is to say, I’m not sure."

  "What in God’s name are you babbling on about, man?"

  Woodson took a deep breath, making his decision. "Do you recall that a spy has been selling information to the French for the past five months?"

  Lord Wellesley scowled. "It is hardly a fact I might forget, as the traitor has cost me several battles."

  The small man turned a bright shade of pink. "Of course, my lord. Please forgive--"

  "Do get on with it, Woodson."

  "Well, I…I believe I might have just identified that man."

  Lord Wellesley’s silver utensil dropped to his plate as he stared at the clerk in shock. A smile spread across his features, and he gave a boisterous laugh.

  "Oh, well done, Woodson. Our lord Falcon has been determined to unmask this man, and my clerk announces over luncheon that he has identified the traitor. Jolly good, Woodson, jolly good. Who is the bastard?"

  The clerk told him, and the admiral’s eyes shone with skepticism. "The man is a bloody war hero! Killed countless Frenchmen on the peninsula and was even captured."

  "Nevertheless, my lord. . ."

  Wellesley’s hands balled into fists. "Very well, I shall inform Falcon of your suspicions, but if you are correct, Falcon will want to string the man up himself."

  ***

  "You have made the correct decision, my dear. You can explain everything to Wessex after we have this man in custody."

  Celeste stared at the fire as Falcon tried to soothe her from his chair in the modest study. Aidan had not spoken to her since their parting at the ball. He had not even sent a note demanding an explanation, not that she could give him one, but she wanted him to ask for one none the less.

  No, the Earl of Wessex had well and truly washed his hands of her at last. She would welcome his anger if only to see him again.

  "I’m sure you’re correct," she agreed, not believing it.

  "Now, here are the land transfers and bank documents, all forged with Napoleon’s seal. You are to sign them in this man’s presence in exchange for the documents he is selling. You have done this a hundred times, Lady Rivenhall, so I need not remind you of the importance of this exchange."

  Celeste nodded, the numbness making her agree to anything. "I’ll not disappoint you, my lord."

  Falcon stared into her eyes. "You coul
d never disappoint me, my dear, but as you have refused my offer for an armed escort. . ."

  "It’s too dangerous. If he sees anyone, he will call off the exchange."

  "I don’t like it."

  "You have no choice, my lord, nor do I." Celeste rose and retrieved her reticule. "I shall return as soon as the exchange is complete."

  "Take care, Celeste."

  She smiled down at her mentor. "I’ve done this a hundred times, remember?"

  "I know," he said with such sadness that her brows furrowed with confusion. "And I am truly sorry."

  Their eyes met and she knew she would cry if she remained, so she did not. She turned and left the study with a new sense of determination. She was determined to identify this traitor, determined to save English soldiers, but perhaps most of all she was determined to make the old man proud of her.

  ***

  The Earl of Wessex spent the remainder of Thursday afternoon on Rotten Row.

  He walked his horse and greeted acquaintances, hoping to drive Celeste from his mind. He sat listening to Lord Christian St. John, who had, along with Lord Barksdale, accompanied Ladies Pervill and Appleton to the park.

  "The man was reciting Hamlet’s soliloquy, skull in hand, when an orange came flying out of the pit, knocking it to the floor." Christian paused at the amused chuckles of his companions before continuing. "So Kean turns to the audience and raises a brow, saying, ‘It would appear I’m in need of a fresh skull.’ Then he looks down at the offending patron and says, ‘Yours seems to be sufficiently hollow.’"

  The quartet roared with appreciative laughter and before Aidan had time to consider his feminine company, he asked politely, "Did you go with Lady Hamilton?"

  Christian’s laughter died as Lady Appleton turned a dull red, while Lady Pervill’s mouth hung open in undisguised shock. Lord Barksdale stared in disbelief that Aidan had spoken of Christian’s mistress in the presence of gentle bred ladies. Aidan turned and met the stormy Nordic blue eyes of Lord St. John’s. Christian rarely got angry, but when he did it was well deserved.

  "My apologies--"

  But Aidan’s words were cut off by an explosion in the distance and then another. Christian leaned over and steadied the women’s horses, and then a third explosion, much larger, sent black smoke billowing into the air.