by Lisa Chaplin
He’d had a list ready. Duncan almost laughed at the audacity. “It will be done as soon as may be.”
“Also a horse and cart, reasonable size, and a man you trust to help me with transporting a large item. I need the equipage before first light. I want no one to see what I’m transporting. This item is of great value to me.” The defiant look told Duncan Fulton wanted him to ask, so he could go on the offensive again—but why bother? Whoever he sent with the transport tomorrow would give him full information.
“I’ll arrange it.”
Fulton’s frustration boiled over. “Do what you will, you will never buy me.” The door closed in his face.
Duncan turned on his heel and walked past tangled gorse shrubs that grew wild above the rock-strewn creek leading to the beach. At the end of the path, he headed northwest across the scrubby grass and sand. Aware of the limp that made him more obvious to any observer, he was glad of the swift night falling. In the dark cloak, he was invisible. Unidentifiable.
At a small cove north of Ambleteuse, he boarded the launch. Twelve sailors rowed him back to the black-painted ship, sitting just inside French waters. Firelight and three lamps lit the commander’s quarters when he walked in. He reported to his commanding officer without reserve. Burton and Flynn guarded the doors. “It’s useless, sir. He won’t change allegiances in our lifetime. He believes democracy will work here, and that Bonaparte’s another Washington.”
“Certainly,” William Windham snapped, “and the French Revolution never collapsed on itself and killed its own people by the thousands.” The former British minister at war shook his long, thin head in disgust. “Has he any idea of the economic and military mess Britain’s in, thanks to nine years of war forced on us by France’s enforced spread of republican ideals across the Continent?”
“I think we can include two failed harvests, the House of Lords always voting to attack Ireland to keep their lands intact, and the Prince of Wales’s rabid overspending,” Duncan said dryly. “In my opinion, Britain could benefit from some of Boney’s financial genius and self-restraint.” Indeed, Boney had dragged France from four hundred and seventy million francs of crushing debt to a small surplus in under two years: an amazing feat.
“What are you, a bloody Revolutionist? Are you willing to give up your future title and lands to the revolutionary rabble?” Zephyr snapped. “Shall we bring over the guillotine while we’re at it? Because we’d all be dead within the year, and then the rabble will turn on one another to lift themselves above the rest!”
He ought to have held his tongue. “I beg your pardon, sir.” Huge waves were breaking against the ship. Duncan’s thigh ached as he struggled to keep balance. If this was any indication, it was going to be one hell of a winter. “In any case, anything Fulton knows is from Boney’s rhetoric against us.”
“If he believes that hysteria, he probably thinks Boney wants peace in Europe instead of becoming the next Alexander. Madame de Staël was right: ‘He can live only in agitation, and only breathe freely in a volcanic atmosphere.’” Windham put his hands in his hair, remembered he had a wig on, and blew out a sigh. “Boney thrives on war.”
If he thrives on it, it’s odd that he keeps offering the world peace treaties, and it’s us, the Austrians, and Russians that keep declaring war on him. This time, Duncan kept his thought to himself. Zephyr was so thoroughly a man of the upper class he saw declaring war on anyone wanting to change the status quo as an act of defense.
After the long walk to the house and back, Duncan’s leg was throbbing like the dickens. Holding on to the edge of the desk, he said, “Fulton has two types of underwater boat bombs that have the potential to revolutionize sea battle: the torpedo, which is a sticky bomb; and the carcass, which is a barrel bomb he’s attempting to shoot out of something called a propulsion chamber. If Bonaparte seizes them, he’d give them to the Ministries of Science and the Marine. Within months France could devastate our fleet and invade without fear of retaliation. The army at home is a shambles of drunkards and boys. They’d be helpless against this new Grande Armée he’s assembled.”
“Shall we recall the professional soldiers from Egypt and Ireland, allow those nations to be invaded or run rampant, to relieve your fears?” his superior mocked him. “Show them some proof, and the government might do something.”
“It’s said he has a hundred thousand trained soldiers besides the twenty thousand around Paris and the ten thousand guarding the Channel Coast,” Duncan went on, refusing to be baited. “All he needs is the means to get them across the Channel, and Britain’s lost.”
Windham snapped, “So much for Boney’s wanting peace, then! In any case, why do you think I let you relocate Fulton so close to Boulogne, only three miles outside the first posting of guards? If you find evidence that this bête noire of yours exists in truth, Fulton might realize Bonaparte’s true intentions and turn his coat.”
It was Windham’s way to belittle and deride, then act decisively when proven wrong, so Duncan stuck to the point. “We need more ships patrolling the Channel, sir.”
“There are none to spare. A hundred ships are chasing privateers across the Atlantic, and a score of them are ship prisons on the Thames, or transporting criminals to Sydney Town. Dissidents are gathering arms in Dublin, so Addington’s ordered fifty ships westward. The Admiralty only spared us the half-dozen ships we have because Lord Nelson insisted. You can try to interest the Guernsey privateers with promises of booty, but I doubt they’ll move without the king’s written permission.”
Irritably wishing Windham would ask him to sit, Duncan hung on to the edge of his desk. “We must obtain a submersible boat from Fulton, and a navigator. The house and five hundred francs I gave Fulton won’t last long. His inventions are expensive to make and repair.”
Zephyr slanted him a look of pure derision. “To give him more until he’s given allegiance to Britain is absurd.”
Duncan kept his mouth shut about the further promises he’d made Fulton.
Frowning, Zephyr fiddled with a quill and the inkpot glued onto the desk. “Addington will refuse to see the French threat until Ireland’s safe. He hangs on to that bloody Amiens Treaty like it’s made of diamonds instead of barefaced lies.” He shrugged. “Keep your team close. Something’s foul in the wind, and these ports are too close to Britain.”
Beneath the pithy nature and contempt for the mental acuity of his fellow man, Duncan knew he could rely on Windham to support his operatives. “Fulton doesn’t like me, sir.”
“So send him someone he will like,” Windham snapped sotto voce. “He’s lacking assistance. You have a shipwright, don’t you, and an engineer?”
“I used Flynn to trick him into leaving Le Havre, sir, and Carlsberg, though an excellent engineer, couldn’t convince anyone he’s French.”
His spymaster thought for a minute. “I’ve heard he likes pretty young things. The sailors were speaking about a girl on board. If she’s pretty, and capable of playing a loyal republican, let him play with her. Maybe she’ll wiggle a promise out of him in pillow talk.”
Though it echoed his plan, Duncan balked like a horse on a high jump. “Fulton seems a moral kind of man, sir. An idealist.”
“It doesn’t extend to his bed, trust me. Madame Barlow lived with Fulton for two years while he paid her gudgeon of a husband for the privilege. High ideals.” He harrumphed, pacing the cabin. “He likes young, married women with complacent husbands—or better yet, absent.” He frowned. “It’s Eddie Sunderland’s girl on your ship, isn’t it—the one you were looking for?” Zephyr stopped at the fire, holding his hands out to warm them. “Hmmm. A pretty girl with charm to spare like her mother, married and with a damaged reputation.” He slanted Duncan a questioning glance.
Clasped behind his back, Duncan’s hands curled into hard fists. It took all his self-control to speak in a cool, disinterested tone. “She’s only nineteen, sir.”
“Don’t be a muttonhead. Do you want Fulton’s boat
or not? I told you he likes pretty young things, and more so if there are no fathers about, or any chance of virginal entrapment.”
Duncan felt an odd constriction in his throat, knowing what Eddie, Leo, and Andrew would say to that. It would probably destroy poor Caroline. “Lady Sunderland is ill.”
“So let Eddie come for the girl,” Zephyr retorted. “He’s not tied and gagged in Norfolk.”
Since it was an echo of his own belief, Duncan didn’t even try to defend Eddie. “She’s twice refused the pillow-talk part of the plan.”
“Damn it. She’s already ruined—so what’s her issue?” After a few moments, Zephyr clicked his fingers. “Chit’s after redemption, eh? So give her what any girl of our class must want. Get Eddie’s promise of forgiveness, or better yet, get her mother to write, praising her courage. That’ll give her incentive.”
The echoes of his plan rang in his conscience like a bell tolling. From Zephyr’s mouth, it felt like a premonition of disaster.
Having taken Duncan’s assent for granted, Zephyr had moved on. “Trouble is, Fulton will suspect anyone coming to him now.” He clicked his fingers again. “Damage her.”
Only strong self-discipline prevented him from sputtering. “No,” he said coldly.
Zephyr sighed. “Cut the beef-witted knight act! She’s Delacorte’s leftovers, and a bloody tavern wench into the bargain. Fulton will give his toys to Boney to play with if we don’t win him. Certainly he’s both moral and an idealist, but his Achilles heel is pretty young things. I met the girl two years ago. She’s pretty enough, but an impertinent chit, and too clever by half. We have to disarm Fulton before he starts suspecting her. We need her to play the pity card—the bird with a broken wing.”
“Her left arm is in a sling, and she has bruising and stitches on her face from a shot-out window. She had a slight case of wound fever. Two men beat her and tried to rape her a month ago. Her husband was brutal to her, and currently men terrify her. Will that be enough, or should I do something more drastic?”
Though he’d kept his tone even, Zephyr chuckled. “Sits the wind in that quarter, Tidewatcher? I’d thought you impervious to women.”
“The wind sits nowhere. I owe a life debt to Eddie,” Duncan said coldly.
Zephyr shrugged. “Very well, her current damage will do. Fulton’s blathered on about compassion for the suffering masses. He’ll take her in.” He turned his hands back to the fire. “He’s a closet snob, you know, like most republicans. If he finds out she’s a wealthy baronet’s daughter, he’ll wed her, hoping Eddie will fund his work. Given her ruin in English society, she’s probably best off in America.” He threw Duncan another sideways glance. “You can’t kill Delacorte until we know whose coat he wears. He’s the unknown quantity in all this. If we find out whom he’s working for, we may get what they’re doing and why. Is that clear?”
“We need not arrange the girl’s future.” Duncan forced an amused look, but he knew when he was being bear-led. “She may have a say in that.”
Zephyr shrugged again. “Is she well enough to go within the week?”
“Ship’s doctor wants her to rest for another few days, and she needs training before we can throw her into the mission.”
“If the girl’s unequal to the task, I’ll send another woman. But Boney’s conscripting men to this new army. Men are pouring by the thousands in for the food and clothing he gives them, and the pay that helps their families. If you’re right about your bête noire, or the assassination attempt, someone must be in place at Ambleteuse within a fortnight.”
Damn it, Zephyr had boxed him right into this corner, leaving him no choice. “I’m fairly sure she’ll agree to infiltrate the house, but I won’t force her on bedding Fulton.”
Having taken his stance for granted, Windham nodded. “Stay in the region with her, and play Lancelot to the girl’s Guinevere if it amuses you. Just make certain she fulfills the objective. Pitt and Grenville have given us carte blanche on this matter. Other teams will be coming in as well, including Smith and Wright with some new agents. We must know what’s happening in Boulogne, and get Fulton and his toys on English soil before Boney changes his mind.”
So carte blanche meant that spending money on Fulton was absurd, but a young woman’s ruin was acceptable? Zephyr’s hypocrisy over women tolled like a funerary bell in Duncan’s head—but this plan with the girl was all he had. He’d been given leeway to protect her. It was all he could hope for. Keeping his voice neutral, he said, “Consider it done, sir.”
Another nod. “The tide’s turning. If Boney finds out I’ve been in French waters, we’ll be in the basket and no mistake.” Windham strode to the door, staggering as another wave hit the hull. “Your leg’s injured. Fool, why didn’t you sit?” Before Duncan could answer, Zephyr was gone.
The autumn night was shrouded by a thick, cold sea mist. Duncan made his way up to the deck, watching the other black-painted ship disappear. When night fell, it enveloped their ships until they were invisible. Here he felt anonymous, without name, heart, or conscience—a King’s Man—and Britain’s safety was paramount, even above loyalty to Eddie, who’d been father and mentor for half a lifetime. Here he could betray his mentor’s daughter, the woman he’d once hoped to marry, with only a pang of regret.
CHAPTER 21
The Tuileries, Paris
September 6, 1802
IT WAS ALMOST EIGHT. The first consul would make his appearance at the levee any minute.
Georgy’s new gown was a lemon-hued watered silk, high necked and in no way tight, but the material had been dampened so the silk clung to every curve. She felt almost naked, and by the behind-the-fans stares and whispers of her compatriots, they thought she looked it. Her heart was pounding, her breathing rapid. She’d visited the Tuileries for months now, but she’d been an innocent, an ingénue, beneath notice. Her appearance had never been as vital as tonight.
You can do this. For Lizzy.
Fortunately, Mama had been an avid admirer of Napoleon since the Red Sea was said to have parted for him in ’97—but how far would that admiration go? Knowing nothing of her daughter’s mission, would the Duchess of Gordon create a scene?
“Isn’t it rather ridiculous thinking that I, a girl of nineteen, can help you?” she’d asked when The Incomparable had outlined Georgy’s expected mission.
“Nonsense, Lady Georgiana; you’re perfect for our current needs, and your station puts you above suspicion.” She’d had the cheek to grin. “What could be more natural than a well-known, charming girl like you flirting with Napoleon? Your charm is famed throughout the Polite World, my dear. He would be flattered, intrigued. Only smile if whispers circulate about the two of you, but say nothing. Everyone knows his wife is barren, and he’s desperate for an heir. And if you hear any indiscreet whispers, as men tend to do when they’re infatuated . . .”
She’d frowned. “What if he suspects me? Or expects more than I am willing to give? How would insulting Napoleon with a refusal help my friend?”
“Why should he suspect you? You’re being nonsensical. You’re a duke’s daughter. He won’t expect you to become his paramour.” She’d sounded reassuring but with a thread of impatience beneath. “You will never be alone with him. You won’t know who our people are, but they’ll know you. And your friend’s mission is in the most dangerous region of France. Things you discover could help her to evacuate at the right time.”
Georgy had blinked and frowned. “I see,” she’d said, hating to think of Lizzy in such danger—but if Lizzy could do it, so could she. “All of Paris knows that the Viscomte de Beauharnais and I are good friends.”
“You are concerned he will be hurt?” The Incomparable had asked, her eyes curiously hollow. “It is most commendable of you.”
Georgy opened her mouth and closed it before the words could slip out. Not hurt—disgusted. “Lady Josephine is his mother,” she’d said quietly.
“Who has been less than faithful to Napoleon, j
ust as he has been to her” was the impatient response. “We are in Paris, where people are practical over such matters.”
“But—”
“If you cannot do this, Lady Georgiana, please let me know now. Matters are at such a pass between our nations that we need the information as soon as may be—most especially your friend Elizabeth’s team. You are the best candidate, but there are others . . .”
“Are things so bad?” Georgy asked, disturbed more than she’d cared to admit by the woman’s simple nod. “But—we are at peace . . .”
“An uneasy peace indeed.” The Incomparable was just as quiet and serious. “We know there is a plan afoot sometime in the autumn to assassinate the first consul. If he dies, le bon Dieu alone knows who will replace him—probably one of the power-hungry generals who make a fortune in war. Or France could return to a Jacobin rule, which will again cause mayhem throughout Europe. Your friend is part of a team in place near Boulogne-sur-Mer, where the assassination is planned, but we need the date confirmed.”
“How will my, ah”—she felt herself blush—“charming the first consul help us?”
“He won’t confirm when he goes to the Channel Coast, yet the assassins know. We have to play catch-as-catch-can with men whose allegiance to our cause ought to be unquestioned, but they have found funding elsewhere. As such, their true loyalties are now unknown.”
Georgy tried to follow the implications, but for the first time in a sophisticated life, she felt like the innocent she really was. How she wished Papa were here! The Duke of Gordon was, as the saying went, awake on every suit; he’d know how to explain all this to her so she understood. “We need Napoleon to stay alive?”
She felt relieved when she got a nod in reply—but the woman’s exquisite face was troubled. “The Austrians and Russians want him dead and replaced by a Bourbon monarch. Prussia and Britain, not to mention Belgium and the Netherlands, cannot afford that. For now at least, while he offers treaties, Napoleon is the best chance of achieving peace in Europe. He has brought harmony and prosperity to France and calmed the masses since he’s improved the economy and employment for the average Frenchman. Boys are off the streets and in schools. The guillotine has lost more than half its yearly custom.”
