They were well matched in size and strength, but Lord Cunningham rolled atop him and struck him on his newly inflicted wound. Aidan cried out, the pain blinding him. The tall man took the opportunity to place his knee, and all of his weight, on Aidan’s shattered shoulder.
Aidan struck out, but his left arm was useless. Lord Cunningham wrapped his hands around Aidan’s neck and began to squeeze. Aidan choked, knowing that he soon would be dead. The thought should have struck fear into the very recesses of his soul, but it did not. Without Celeste at his side, with her death squarely on his shoulders, he was not sure that he could survive anyway.
The evening sun began to dim, and stars began to dance about the small room. He could feel his eyes drifting closed as his mind faded into darkness, then Lord Cunningham’s grip eased.
Aidan looked up in confusion as he heard the man struggling to breathe. And there, lodged in his throat, was a very familiar dagger. The man’s hands went to his throat, and his blue eyes grew wide just before his last breath escaped his body.
Aidan hauled himself up, his left arm dangling as he ran to Celeste’s side.
"Celeste." He pressed his hand to her ribs to stop her life slipping through his fingers. "Celeste, don’t leave me. I’m so sorry, my love."
Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled. "It is not your fault, Aidan, no more than the death of the men under your command. This is war, and sacrifices must be made."
"Not you."
"And why am I more precious than any other person?"
"Because I love you."
Tears filled her eyes as she looked up at him. "And I love you," she said, her eyelids struggling to remain open.
Aidan scooped her up into his arms, oblivious of the blood between them. "No, Celeste. Stay here." Distant footsteps sounded on the stairs. "No!" Aidan gripped her closer. "No!" he shouted, and the moment she died, so did he.
Soldiers entered the darkening chamber, but Aidan was so lost in his grief that Aidan did not hear the boots scuffing the stone floor as the men lifted Lord Cunningham’s body from the room. They returned moments later to take Celeste from him, but he could not let her go. His first instinct was to hold on to her until his sorrow killed him and he could join her.
"My lord," he heard above his head as the young captain touched his right shoulder. Aidan kissed his love for the last time, and allowed the soldiers to carry her from the room.
He stared at the blood pooling between the stones and when the room was empty, he saw a flash of light from the corner of his eye. He looked down at her dagger and bent to pick it up. It was cold and held none of the warmth from her hand. He walked to the window and looked down at the rocks below.
Why had he lived?
Why hadn’t he died in battle like his father? What made him worthy of God’s mercy?
He had thought he understood, thought that he had survived to spend his days loving her. Making her happy, vanquishing the memories of her father’s murder with the laughter of their children.
He stared at the rocks.
The truth was he was no more worthy of survival than he had been of the blissful contentment he felt in her arms.
He was alone again. But unlike the loss of his parents, this wound would never heal. Celeste had saved hundreds of soldiers, but with her death, she had killed him. He would never be the same.
"Lord Wessex."
Aidan turned and fought his constricting throat to answer the young soldier that had entered the room. "Yes."
"I’ve been sent to inform you that Lady Rivenhall has a faint heartbeat and has been--"
Aidan brushed past the boy as he stumbled down the stairs of the ruin. He could not breathe as hope swelled in his chest.
"Where is she?" he demanded of the commanding officer.
"Lady Rivenhall has been taken to the Duke of Glenbroke’s townhome. A rider has been sent ahead to summon his personal physician."
Aidan was on his horse and galloping toward London before the lieutenant finished speaking. The sun had set, and the dark road ahead was barely visible, but he dared not stop.
He could not.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Duke and Duchess of Glenbroke stood anxiously at the bedside as the doctor pulled the counterpane over Lady Rivenhall’s chest.
The physician sighed heavily, saying, "I’ve removed the bullet and closed the wound. There appears to be no damage to vital areas, but the girl has lost a great deal of blood. Provided the wound does not fester, we should know by morning if she will survive."
Sarah stared at the pale woman lying in her bed. "Is there nothing more we can do?"
The doctor shook his head. "We will know by morning. I shall return then."
The duke clasped the physician’s hand. "Thank you for coming, William."
"It was my honor, Your Grace. I only wish that the circumstances were not so grave."
The doctor turned to exit the room, but was startled to see the disheveled Earl of Wessex blocking his path.
"Aidan." Sarah rushed to her injured brother, but he did not respond, did not even seem to notice her.
He skewered the doctor with his eyes, saying, "If you leave this house tonight, I will hunt you down and kill you in the street."
"Wessex!" the duke admonished as Sarah gasped at her brother’s pronouncement. "Mr. Albright, please accept my apologies--"
"Don’t apologize for me, Gilbert. I am quite serious."
The doctor stared at Aidan warily, and Gilbert placed a gentle hand on the elderly man’s back as he said, "Let me show you to a guest room just down the hall, Mr. Albright, then perhaps you might see to Lord Wessex’s shoulder. We shall notify your household of your stay, and please do not hesitate in calling for anything you require."
As Gilbert left the room he stared at his wife in silent communication. Sarah watched helplessly as her devastated brother lifted Lady Rivenhall’s right hand in his and carefully lay down beside her.
"Celeste, my love, I’m here. Please, forgive me," he whispered. "Please, forgive me, dearest. Please. I’m so sorry."
Tears welled in Sarah’s eyes as she watched her bother caress the woman’s forehead with his hand as he kissed her softly on the cheek. Sarah lifted her arm to touch him, soothe him, but realized nothing could help his pain until morning.
She left the room and walked downstairs, calling for her cloak when she arrived in the entry. Her husband arrived a few moments later, his dark brows furrowed above silver eyes.
"Where are you going?"
"To pray."
Gilbert pulled her into his powerful arms and kissed the top of her head, saying, "I’ll go with you."
***
Aidan glanced up as the first rays of light filtered through the part in the velvet drapes. He looked down at Celeste with benefit of the light to see if she appeared improved. She did not. He had spent all evening staring at the rise and fall of her chest, convinced that if he watched, he could will her to take another breath, will her heart to keep beating.
Aidan squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his bandaged shoulder with his fingertips. "What would I do without you, my love?"
"No idea," came a weak answer. Aidan eyes snapped open, and he stared in disbelief and hope. "Get yourself killed, I would imagine."
He laughed and tenitively placed his hand on her pale cheek. "Not likely, with your deadly propensity for knives."
The corners of Celeste’s lips lifted in a faint smile. Tears filled Aidan’s eyes because he knew, in that moment and without a doubt that she would survive. He bent his head and kissed her, pouring every ounce of himself into the gentle caress.
"Marry me?"
A spark came into her blue-green eyes as she said, "I thought that ‘the offer would never be made again’."
Aidan kissed her knuckles. "Things have come to light that have forced me to reevaluate that particular declaration."
"Such as?"
"You are the bravest, most noble woman that I have
ever met, and I would be a fool to let you leave this house without a ring on your finger."
"So you are admitting that you are a fool." She smiled, saying, "Perhaps I should reevaluate my original reply."
He kissed her softly, stroking her hair as he stared into her eyes. "My God, Celeste, I thought I lost you," he said soberly.
"How can you have lost me when you just found me?"
Aidan stared at her and waited for the constriction in his throat to ease before whispering, "I love you."
Tears filled her stunning eyes and spilled from the corners, cascading toward her golden hair. "Oh, Aidan I think I loved you from the first moment I saw you."
His smile reflected his heart. "Well, I most assuredly did not love you. Wanted you, yes. But, my God, I have never seen such an evil woman in all my days." She laughed and then caught her breath at the pain.
Terrified, he called for the doctor, but Celeste put a reassuring hand on his. "I shall be fine, Aidan." She smiled. "But perhaps you should leave so that my stitching does not tear."
His anxiety eased the moment the doctor entered the room. "Very well, Lady Rivenhall," Aidan said with an arrogant drawl. "I have errands to run."
"Do you?" she asked with a raised brow. "And what might those be?"
"I have to find a parson and a ring because you, my dear, are getting married today."
Celeste flashed him the most enchanting smile he had ever seen. "Your sister will have a fit."
Aidan bent down and kissed those delicious lips, and with an impish grin said, "The duchess can host the announcement of our first child."
Epilogue
With a brandy glass in one hand and a pocket watch in the other, Falcon determined that he had several more minutes to converse before he would need to resume his work.
He nestled into the corner of his wingback chair and stared over his desk at the two men that had been so instrumental in plugging the leak at the Foreign Office.
"Damn embarrassing, having my own clerk turn out to be the traitor," he mumbled. The Duke of Glenbroke chuckled at the irony and Falcon pointedly ignored him, continuing, "Well, never mind, caught the blackguard in the end."
"I believe my wife caught the ‘blackguard,’ my lord."
Falcon’s old eyes sparkled as he turned to stare at the elegant Earl of Wessex. "Clever of you to avoid waiting for a wedding. I always knew you were a bright man." He sipped his brandy, asking, "How is the countess?" as if she were an ordinary woman.
"Busy," Lord Wessex’s tone was touched with pride and Falcon felt a deep satisfaction in orchestrating the match. "My wife insisted that she continue to aid the war effort by tending to the wounded. However, she has agreed to stop her ministration once she is increasing."
The duke’s left brow rose. "Are you making an announcement, Aidan?"
"Not yet." Lord Wessex grinned from ear to ear. "But rest assured that I am dedicating myself the task."
"I am quite sure that you are." Glenbroke laughed at his brother-in-law’s obvious enthusiasm.
"As a matter of fact," the earl said, standing. "I must be off to retrieve my wife from hospital before her patients refuse to relinquish her."
"Celeste is more than capable of defending herself, my lord." Falcon could not help but point out.
"Wessex is newly wed." The duke leaned forward to gather his gloves and beaver skin hat from atop the desk. "Let the man enjoy his illusion of control, before the realities of married life set in."
"Quite right," Falcon met amused silver eyes as the duke rose to his feet. "It would be cruel otherwise."
"Good day, my Lord Falcon." Glenbroke bowed in sarcastic deference to the ridiculous title, then clasped his brother-in-law on the shoulder before ushering him into the hall.
The door clicked shut and Falcon stared at his mahogany desk thinking how fortunate Britain was to have such men. His gazed drifted to the right and he lifted the first of three pristine files, opening it. He could feel himself grinning as he made the final notes that would conclude this dossier.
A great weight lifted as he closed the document, forever filing it away in his heart. Falcon allowed himself a moment of victory, a moment to feel the pure joy of absolution.
And then, reluctantly, he cast his eyes on the other two. The women of Whitehall were as necessary as the war itself, but the need for both was painful. He picked up the top folder, running his hand over the heavy parchment as he spent several minutes in prayer. He set the file down gently, protectively and then reached for the third much larger and infinitely more complex dossier.
He sighed, too old, too experienced in the art of war not to recognize the devastating toll this covert service took on the women he’d recruited. Lady Celeste Wessex’s happily-ever-after was the exception rather than the rule. The majority of his agents, both male and female, would die---were, in fact, already beyond saving. He had to believe that their sacrifice was not in vain, not when they fought and died for the one ideal Falcon himself would kill to protect---a free and peaceful Britain.
Paris, France
October 16, 1811
Nicole closed her eyes, but she could still see the image of General Capette sprawled across the mahogany desk with blood pouring from the ragged wound in the back of his head. She could still smell the gunpowder drifting through the luxurious fifth-floor suite she had just been given admittance to clean.
Her eyes snapped open as she turned toward the fearsome crack that splintered the gilded doors nearest the ornate brass locks. Nicole froze, astonished by the transformation of the amiable French soldiers who had searched her moments ago.
They entered the cavernous room with their pistols drawn, but it was not their weapons that made them lethal. It was the coiled muscles, the hard set of their features, and the cold that had settled in their eyes.
“What has happened here?” the lieutenant bellowed as he ran toward her, the sound of his black polished boots bouncing off the carved panel walls.
Nicole opened her mouth to explain, but she had no words to describe the horrific scene she had just witnessed. Blood trickled onto the inlaid wooden floor and she dropped to her knees, scrubbing at the sticky liquid before it was absorbed into the tiny crevasses.
The tall man lifted her from shock with a firm grip on her upper arms. “Mademoiselle!”
Nicole jumped, startled into answering by his shouting.
“I . . . I was airing the general’s room when a man . . .” She pointed to an elongated window and the second soldier rushed toward it, leaning out.
“There is a rope hanging from the roof,” he reported to his superior.
Nicole felt a callused finger lifting her chin, and she was forced to look into the hard eyes of the young lieutenant.
“Describe this man,” he said, the muscles in his jaw throbbing.
“Fair hair.” A tear streamed down her face as she forced herself to continue. “Tall, handsome. He . . . He shot the general and climbed onto the balcony.”
“Gaston.” He glanced at the other man. “Search the roof. I’ll take to the street. Mademoiselle.” His eyes darted back to her the instant that they were alone. “You must remain here until I return.”
“No!” she protested, desperate to get out of the room. “Do not leave me here. What if—”
“Do not fear, mademoiselle,” the lieutenant said, patting her hand as if she were a child awoken by some gruesome dream. “This man will want to get away from the hotel as quickly as is possible.”
He turned to go but Nicole grabbed his arm. “Please, don’t leave me,” she whispered, sounding terrified.
The lieutenant looked down and sighed with frustration, then propelled her out the damaged doors and toward the servants’ staircase. They had descended two flights of stairs when they rounded a corner on the third floor and very nearly collided with an elderly butler holding a laden dinner tray.
The lieutenant scarcely stopped, leaving her with the bewildered servant and saying, “I mu
st go if I am to capture the general’s murderer.”
But she knew he would never capture the assassin.
General Capette had been so reviled by the French themselves that Napoleon had assigned bodyguards to protect his most victorious commander. The objection to the general, it was commonly agreed, was the barbaric manner in which he had obtained those many victories.
There had even been rumors that the general had raped a chambermaid at the hotel, which undoubtedly was the reason Nicole had so easily obtained the position a mere eight days ago.
“General Capette has been murdered?” The old man stared at her blood-spattered apron in disbelief.
“Yes,” Nicole nodded. “A man climbed from the roof onto the balcony.”
“Are you injured?”
Nicole’s chin began to quiver. “No.” She was not injured, but she would never be the same.
The old man turned to escort her to the kitchens, but needing to be alone, she stopped him. “Your supper is becoming cold. I am unharmed, I assure you.”
Nicole could sense the butler’s apprehension so she descended the stairs before he could protest further. She continued her brisk pace until a mixture of aromas wafted up the stairwell from the direction of the noisy kitchen.
Slowing, she stepped onto the landing and cautiously pushed the door inward. The deafening sound of metal pots, determined chopping, and shouting greeted her as she walked in. Colorful fruits were piled everywhere as pastry cooks agonized over the finishing touches to their evening’s creations.
She continued walking, trying not to disturb the kitchen staff during the most chaotic portion of their day. They would learn of General Capette’s murder soon enough; she envied them their last moments of ignorance.
The back door of the hotel came into view, and Nicole felt the anxiety ease from her shoulders. She had no intention of sobbing like a child in front of the entire kitchen, but feared if she did not leave soon, she would.
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