by Brenda Joyce
His smile faded. It was time to leave. Prior to their affair, it hadn’t ever occurred to him to discuss it with her—he had envisioned simply vanishing one day, perhaps leaving a note of gratitude behind. Unfortunately he would not be able to reimburse her and her family for their care, as that would threaten his alias. Now, he wasn’t so sure he felt comfortable simply walking out without a word, or leaving a simple note behind.
And that made him a fool.
“I THINK THAT AMELIA is suspicious,” Julianne said, but she was smiling. It was a gorgeous summer afternoon, the sun high and bright. Below the cliffs where they strolled, the ocean was an unusual shade of sapphire-blue. A slight, cool ocean breeze whipped her skirts against his legs as they walked. A pair of shaggy herding dogs had followed them from the stables and were hunting grouse amidst the gorse, tails wagging.
“She doesn’t like me, which is different from being suspicious,” he said, smiling. The manor remained behind them and in sight. As he glanced back, he knew that they could be seen with the naked eye, and Jack had a spyglass in his bedroom. Amelia could be watching them as they spoke. “Does she dislike most men, or is it only me?”
Julianne reached for his arm and he tucked her hand firmly against his side. “She was heartbroken years ago. I didn’t realize it until you came into our care, but I think she still has feelings for that man—and you are somewhat like him. I believe that is why she is so mistrustful of you.”
“She was involved with the nobleman you mentioned, St. Just?”
“You have an excessively good memory, Charles.”
“You said he was a patriot—making him my enemy. Of course I recall him,” he said amiably. But what was this? He knew Grenville well, and while no ladies’ man, Grenville always kept a beautiful mistress. Dominic could not imagine him courting Amelia Greystone. Surely the petite, dour Amelia had misconstrued whatever interactions had occurred. “Your sister was casting about for an earl?”
“He wasn’t the earl then, or even an heir,” she said. “And my sister does not cast about, fishing for men! St. Just discovered her at the market. He called on her many times, but he obviously had no genuine interest, because when his brother died, he simply left the parish and never called again.” She glowered. “He did not even write a letter.”
Dominic could not imagine Simon Grenville behaving like a besotted fool, but Simon’s older brother had died nine or ten years ago. People could change, he supposed.
“Look,” Julianne said.
A pair of huge boulders was ahead. They were as tall as towers, and Dom felt his entire body tighten. Julia slipped her hand into his. Grinning, she pulled him forward and around the corner, until they were safely out of sight.
Instantly he embraced her, his heart slamming. Her smile was gone and he saw the hunger in her eyes, which had to match his. It had been only a few hours since she had left his bed, but he pulled her close. He wanted her with a maddening urgency.
Why not linger for a few more days? When he left, he was never returning. When he left, his life would be reduced to a few moments in London, and then nothing but war and espionage, revolution and death.
“Charles,” she whispered roughly. “Make love to me.”
He inhaled. She knew he was well enough to leave; she knew that day was coming, even if they hadn’t discussed it.
Dominic kissed her, hard, before pulling her down to the ground with him.
“I HAVE NEVER SEEN you in such good spirits,” Tom Treyton said, his gaze sharp.
Julianne smiled warmly at Tom as they drove up the rocky road toward Greystone, sharing the front seat of the carriage together, his horse tied behind the rear fender. Several days had passed since she and Charles made love by the ocean. She had gone into Penzance for badly needed supplies, and had bumped into Tom outside the candle maker’s. She hadn’t had a chance to speak with him since Charles had awoken from his delirium, almost three weeks ago. And as eager as she was to return to her lover, Tom always had the latest news. She not only wanted information for herself, she wanted it for Charles.
Her lover.
As she thought about him, her heart lurched with so much love and desire. For almost two weeks—it had been twelve days, to be precise—she had been stealing into his bedchamber every night, or walking with him on the cliffs, or in the cove—which meant that they were making wild, frantic love in the afternoons. Julianne knew she could no longer think straight—not when with Charles. She was deeply in love.
And Julianne was certain he loved her as she loved him. His passion was greater now than it had been at first. He seemed as aware as she was of the ever-ticking clock, as their time together ran out. And he was always asking her personal questions about her life at Greystone, both her past and her future. Julianne thought that if he ever wanted to, he could probably write a biography about her.
She was terrified of his leaving her.
Of course, they never spoke of his pending departure for France. It was as if they had reached a silent accord to live in the moment—dangerously, passionately, fortuitously.
That morning, she had reluctantly told him that she had to go into the city. To her surprise, he had encouraged her—as if he did not mind missing their afternoon tryst. It was then that he had stressed how badly he needed the London newspapers. She had seen the dark urgency in his eyes—and it had been like a dash of ice water, thrown into her face. They were carrying on as if two lovers without a care in the world. They had forgotten about the war, the revolution, and even the government’s war policies there at home—and it was inexcusable.
Of course she would bring him news.
And Tom’s news was not particularly good. Lyon, Marseilles and Toulon were now in the hands of anti-republican leaders. There were continuing riots in Paris, mostly because of the high prices of bread and the spectacular shortage of foodstuffs, and the city was in a state of near anarchy. Mobs ruled, except when the police were present. According to Tom, the riots were occurring throughout the rest of the country, as well.
Until then, they had spent the entire drive catching up on the war. They had not had a chance to discuss their personal affairs.
“I am always in good spirits,” she now told Tom. “But you do not seem happy. Is anything wrong, Tom?”
“I have heard rumors that Pitt has erected a ministry to deal with French espionage in Britain.” He rolled his eyes. “It is called the Alien Office.”
“Are there French agents in Britain?”
“I imagine so. Those damned émigrés are everywhere, hatching up all kinds of royalist plots against the Republic.” He added, “But the real gossip is that Pitt wishes to use this new agency to hunt down Jacobin sympathizers like you and me.”
She was stabbed with fear. “That is absurd! Surely our government will not persecute its own citizens.”
“I don’t know if it is absurd or not. I do know that Pitt hates us—the king hates us—and the Tories hate us.”
She shivered.
“Just be careful. We haven’t spoken in weeks, Julianne. I received a letter from Marcel,” he said, referring to their contact at the Parisian Jacobin Club they corresponded with. “He claims an émigré family has settled in south Cornwall or will do so. He wishes for me to locate the Comte D’Archand and his two children. Have you heard of this man?”
“No, I have not,” she said, taken aback. “Why do they wish to know of this man’s whereabouts?”
“I have no idea, but I said we would help.”
“Of course we will help,” she said, patting his forearm.
Tom looked at her. “I have missed you.”
She tensed.
“What is wrong, Julianne? Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked. “I know you are aware of my affection for you.”
“Of course,” she managed, in dismay. The manor was finally visible, standing out starkly against the sky and the ocean. She inhaled. “I told you about Maurice.” She had sent Tom a note weeks
ago. “I have had a very ill guest to care for. I haven’t had a moment to think of myself.” She turned away, blushing at the shameful lie. All she had done these past two weeks was think of herself and her need to be with Charles.
“I would think you put out by having a guest for so long, especially one who’s convalescing, impinging upon your interests and passions.”
Oh, this was terrible, she thought, her heart lurching now. “Fortunately, Charles is a very interesting man. I have been entertained, not put out. You will like him immensely, Tom. He is very articulate and very charming.”
Tom’s eyes sharpened. “It is Charles?”
Not quite looking him in the eye, she said, “He has become my friend.”
Tom sighed. “Of course he has. He is a French army officer, so of course I like him already. Has he been regaling you with war stories, Julianne? It seems unlikely that an army officer would be so articulate.”
“He is the son of a jeweler, but he owns a print shop in Paris, and he is very well read, as you shall see,” she said eagerly. Charles had told her all about his family and his life in France. She couldn’t wait for the two men to meet. They would like one another instantly—they had so much in common.
Tom stared at her. They were traveling up the drive, his fine gelding trotting briskly in the traces. “How unusual, for a jeweler’s son to be literate.”
“It is very unusual,” Julianne said, “but Charles is hardly average, as you will see.”
“You almost sound smitten.”
She said carefully, “I am hardly smitten.”
They fell into silence now, approaching the house. Tom halted the carriage, setting the brake. Julianne got down without his help, and was about to walk with him to the front door, when a sense made her turn. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Charles sauntering out of the stables.
What on earth? she thought, but she smiled.
He did not smile back, as he slowly approached.
Tom said harshly, “That is Maurice?” Displeasure was in his tone.
She glanced at him and saw how dark his expression was. “Of course it is. Who else would it be?”
“You failed to mention that he is a big, handsome fellow.”
Her heart skipped in alarm. “That is hardly a topic of conversation,” she began.
“The man looks like a damned rake,” Tom said flatly.
Julianne glanced back and forth between both men, realizing that Charles was staring at Tom, a half-smile on his face now, as Tom glowered back. Tom said, “What was he doing in the stables? Maybe he was going to ride off to… What? Spy?”
“We’re on the same side,” she said tersely. “So if he did mean to spy on our neighbors, what difference would it make?”
Charles was now in earshot. He smiled casually at her. She quickly introduced both men.
“I am very pleased to finally make your acquaintance,” Charles said politely to Tom. “And I apologize for my poor use of your language.”
Tom shook hands. “Julianne told me about you, as well. I see you are fully recovered.”
“I am improving on a daily basis, and I owe my life to Mademoiselle Greystone.” He turned to Julianne. “Did you enjoy your afternoon in the city?”
“Yes, of course, and I have two newspapers for you.”
“Thank you.” He hesitated. “I appreciate what you are doing for my country, monsieur.”
“I am a man of great principle,” Tom said. “I abhor despotism and tyranny. Of course I am supportive of the great revolution in France.” He added, grimly, “I also appreciate the sacrifices you have made.”
Charles smiled and glanced at Julianne. “I am going to leave you to your conversation.”
As they all started toward the house, Tom restrained her, so that they fell behind Charles. He halted, and Julianne had no choice but to do so, too. “What is it?”
“I do not trust him,” Tom said in a low voice.
“Tom!” Julianne gasped.
“A jeweler’s son?” he scoffed. “That man is as patrician as St. Just.”
AFTER TOM HAD LEFT, Julianne hurried upstairs. Charles was sitting at the table, reading the newspapers she had brought him. For one moment, her heart turned over hard, as she watched him. He glanced up and smiled.
She smiled back, but then became grim, entering. “Tom is suspicious of you.”
His brows lifted and he was amused. “How so?”
“He doesn’t think you a French army officer!”
“He doesn’t like me, Julianne.” Charles calmly laid his newspaper aside.
“He took an instant dislike to you. And he seems suspicious of our relationship, too.” She walked over to the table and sat.
Charles took her hand. “He is in love with you, so of course he dislikes me. But we hardly spoke to one another. If he has suspicions, they are not of our making.”
“Should we worry?” she asked.
Charles was indifferent. “I have been through too much to worry about what Treyton thinks of me. Is there war news?”
Of course he needed the latest news. She would not even consider Tom’s suspicions. “It isn’t very good, Charles. Lyon, Toulon and Marseilles are in rebel hands.” She rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. One day, he would be in France, facing those rebels or the allied armies. She did not want to think about it—not now, not yet.
But his expression never changed. If he was as dismayed as she was, he did not show it.
Then she recalled that odd request from Marcel. “We have heard from our friends in Paris, as well. Apparently we can help the revolution. An émigré has moved to Cornwall and we have been asked to locate him, although I don’t know why that would be useful to the cause.”
“They undoubtedly wish to infiltrate his household, to uncover any royalist plots against the Republic,” Charles said evenly. “They might even wish to send assassins. Will you do as you have been asked?”
She started. “Of course I must help, but surely no one means to assassinate an émigré!”
“If he is plotting against the Republic, as most émigrés are, he will be disposed of.”
She was aghast.
“Do not involve yourself,” Charles said flatly, as if giving a command. “It is too dangerous an assignment. If you succeed, they might ask you to infiltrate the household and actively spy. As intelligent as you are, you are too honest to be adept at spying. Stay out of it, Julianne.”
“I would be a terrible spy, but I don’t think I will be asked to spy on anyone.”
“You are naive. It is a part of your charm.” Charles dropped his hand. “You are fond of Tom.”
She went still. “We are friends.”
“He seems well heeled. Does he come from a good family?”
“Yes, he does. Why on earth are you asking?”
“Is he a suitor?”
She was taken aback. “How can you even ask such a thing?”
His stare intensified. A pregnant pause ensued. “I can suggest it because we have both been avoiding the subject of my departure from Greystone.”
Her heart lurched. “Don’t.”
He slowly stood. “Don’t what? Bring up a subject we both wish to avoid?”
“Don’t go,” she whispered. “Not yet.”
“Julianne.” He moved past her and closed the door. Julianne did not protest—but if Amelia came upstairs, there would be a huge explanation to make. “I must leave. We both know I could have left days ago. We both know why I have lingered here.”
She got to her feet, sick with dread now. She had spent the past weeks dreaming of his smile, of being in his arms, of his laugh and of their next rendezvous. She had very deliberately avoided thinking of the future. She had deliberately avoided thinking of his returning to France to rejoin the war.
It did not feel as if she could let him go. She was so deeply in love. “Can you stay a little longer?”
He hesitated. “It will probably take me a few days to make my travel pla
ns.”
She took his hand. She knew she should tell him that all he had to do was walk into the tavern in Sennen and he would find a half a dozen young men, all smugglers, eager to cross the Channel, if they were well paid.
“Will you go back to the front lines?” she heard herself ask harshly.
“Undoubtedly.”
She felt fear then. “How will I know if you are alive and well?”
“It would be best if, when we said goodbye, we cut all ties.”
She was shocked speechless.
He was silent and grim.
“Surely you mean to write to me!” she finally cried.
His expression never changed. “Yes, I could write to you,” he said flatly, unsmiling. “But what would be the point? I will be in France, while you are here pining for me. When you should be thinking of other men—suitors who can offer you marriage. Should I then allow myself to miss you? To want you? To what end, Julianne? It would be better for us both to say goodbye and sever all ties.”
“I could wait for you. All wars end.”
He came around the table and clasped both of her shoulders. “I know this is hard for you. I don’t want you waiting for me. I don’t want you pining for me. I have many regrets, but Julianne, damn it, I do not regret our affair.” He was harsh, his eyes hard. “You do not deserve to be a war widow here in Cornwall. You deserve far more than I can give you.”
“You are not going to die in France.” Somehow, she looked up at him, fighting tears.
“I am sorry,” he said.
She felt her heart turn over with dread. “How much time do we have?”
His grasp on her shoulders tightened. “A few days.”
They had been living in the moment for weeks. Julianne went into his arms and he embraced her. Somehow, she must stay in the moment now, for the little time they had left.
CHAPTER SIX
JULIANNE LAY IN Charles’s arms, refusing to move away. He held her tightly as the pale dawn crept into the bedchamber.
She fought the tears seeping out of her closed eyes. She was trying not to think about his leaving in a few days, but it was impossible after the conversation they’d had last night. He kissed her neck, her shoulder. “You had better go.”
