by Brenda Joyce
There was, however, one more thing. “I have made the points I wish to make, with one exception.”
Lucas looked up.
“I cannot be unmasked, even now.”
“Julianne would never betray you to your enemies, Paget. Surely you know that?”
He knew no such thing. “Only five men have known of my activities, Greystone, and now, it is six. The women in this house are not to discover who I am, or that I am English, or that I am Bedford. I cannot have such information in their hands. That information is highly classified.”
Lucas stared. “Sebastian has already made this case for you. I have told no one—not even Jack—about you.”
“Good.” Dom smiled for the first time that morning, and picked up his glass. “So I will remain Charles Maurice, and you can pretend to apprehend me.”
THE MOMENT JULIANNE led the carriage horse into the stables, she saw Lucas’s red gelding in its stall.
Lucas was home.
He would discover that Charles was a French soldier and turn him over to the authorities.
She rushed the startled mare into her box, shut the door and latched it and ran from the barn, her pulse pounding with fear. She must prevent Lucas from interfering; she must not let him arrest Charles! She lifted her skirts and raced across the drive, tripping several times. By the time she reached the front entrance, she was panting and breathless. She rushed inside, not bothering to close the door. The house seemed strangely silent. Where were they? All she could hear was her own heavy, labored breathing.
She started for the stairs, passing the closed library door. And then she faltered, detecting the murmur of male voices from behind the entry.
She froze, still out of breath. The tone of the conversation sounded low key and ordinary—as if a quiet discussion was taking place.
Lucas must be within, but he could not be with Charles. They must have another guest. For Lucas would not have an ordinary discussion with an enemy of the state! Voices would be raised—she would detect the tones of alarm or anger. Julianne reached for the doorknob. But she was so agitated that her hand slipped off the knob instead of turning it, and as she grasped it again, she heard Lucas speaking, very clearly, with some amusement in his tone.
She closed her eyes in relief—perhaps Charles had fled the house.
And then she heard the perfectly cultured tones of an Englishman speaking back to him.
Disbelief began.
That could not be Charles speaking.
Without thinking, she laid her ear against the door.
“Apparently he will have my head if we are not at Whitehall within forty-eight hours,” Lucas was saying.
“That is the republican way, and I must admit, I find that jest in rather bad taste.”
The disbelief intensified. It was not possible. The Englishman almost sounded like Charles! She would have thought it Charles, except he did not have a French accent. Instead, his tones were cultured and upper class.
“We will leave this afternoon, if that suits you, Paget. We can hire a coach with fresh horses in Penzance, and that way you will be at the War Office as commanded.”
“It suits me,” the Englishman said. “I debated trying to get a letter off to London, but I was afraid to put any intelligence in the post.”
“I can imagine you are eager to leave Cornwall.”
“Frankly, I am very eager to get back to London. I can’t quite imagine walking down a city street without the fear of coming across a crazed mob, intent on violence, brutality and murder. And I am very eager to return to my home. It has been well over a year—a year and a half, actually.”
Disbelief had become shock. No. That was not Charles, because Charles was a Frenchman, with an accent, and he did not have a home in London!
“Julianne will fight our ruse tooth and nail,” Lucas said. “She will be furious when I apprehend you to take you to the London authorities.”
“She can never know who I really am.”
She realized she was paralyzed. She can never know....
Somehow she pushed open the door—and saw Charles and Lucas standing before the dark hearth.
Oh my God.
As one, both men turned to look at her. Lucas smiled; Charles did not. “Hello, Julianne. I have met your friend, Maurice.”
Julianne did not even see Lucas. She saw only Charles—who was not a Frenchman at all.
The shock intensified; she stared, absolutely speechless.
He was a lie. Everything was a lie.
In French, he said, “I’m afraid our picnic has been canceled. Your brother has other plans for me.”
“Before you start shouting, I must take him to London. The authorities will wish to interview him,” Lucas said.
She began to tremble wildly, her gaze locked with Paget’s. “Liar.”
His green eyes flickered.
Lucas walked over to her, laying a hand on her arm. She flung it off, not looking at him. “Liar! I heard you—speaking English perfectly—without an accent! You aren’t a Frenchman—you are English!”
His expression never changed. He stared, not saying a word, but she felt his mind racing.
“There is no way out of your lies. You are no Frenchman!” Where, she thought, was her beloved Charles Maurice? How could this be happening?
Lucas said calmly, “How long were you standing at the door, Julianne?”
She could not stop shaking. She continued to stare at the Englishman. “Long enough to hear you call him Paget—a very fine, old, revered English name. Long enough to hear him speaking in English, without the slightest accent. Long enough to know he lives in London, not France. That he has a home there that he misses!” she cried. “Long enough to have heard you say you must be at Whitehall in forty-eight hours.” She gasped, the horror complete now. “Tom was right! He said I must not trust you!”
And she had trusted him completely—with her body and her heart.
Finally, his expression changed. “I am sorry,” he said.
How could this be happening? The library was tilting, spinning. She could not think clearly—this was impossible!
And then her stunned mind understood exactly who she was looking at. He had been wounded in France, but he was an Englishman, which meant one thing. He was a British agent, and he had been in France to undermine the revolution. “You are a spy!”
He was firm. “I am very sorry, Julianne, that I found it necessary to lie to you. But I am not a spy. My mother is French, and I was visiting her properties in France when I got caught up in the violence there.”
She almost laughed at him. As if she would ever again believe a word he uttered!
Where was her beloved Charles—the revolutionary hero who loved her?
“Julianne, you must be calm. It was a matter of survival for Paget to go along with your misconception that he was a Frenchman and an officer in the army.”
She finally looked at her brother. “Did you know, too?”
“No.”
She didn’t believe him, either. “My God, are you a spy, too? Is that why you are always in London these days? Maybe you are gallivanting around Paris, as well!”
“I don’t have time to spy, Julianne,” Lucas said. “And you know it.”
She looked back at Paget, not knowing any such thing. As he stood there, he looked arrogant, patronizing and wealthy, every inch the British noble. Did he have a title? The disbelief, horror and shock had become one mass of confusion. This was a nightmare. This could not be happening.
“I don’t believe either of you.” She whirled and ran from the room.
JULIANNE DID NOT KNOW how long she stood at the window in her bedroom, gazing blindly out at the driveway and stables below. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. It was impossible to think clearly. The shock was too debilitating, and it overwhelmed her.
Everything was a lie.
She was consumed with her memories of Charles and all the times they had spent together—shari
ng meals, reading the newspapers, strolling along the cliffs, making love. His smile flashed, his green gaze turned warm and then it smoldered....
She loved Charles Maurice, and Charles had loved her—she was certain! She wanted him back, desperately!
But Charles Maurice did not exist. Her heroic French army officer was a lie. The month that they had spent together, first as an invalid and nurse, then becoming friends and lovers, was a lie. That man downstairs, that cold-eyed patrician stranger, was an Englishman and a spy!
She had spent weeks in the bed of a British spy!
And in spite of the shock, hurt began, as did the very beginnings of anger.
“Would you care to have a reasonable conversation?”
She froze at the sound of his voice. And slowly, Julianne turned.
The Englishman—Paget—stood on the threshold of her bedchamber, his face grim, his gaze intent and searching.
She fought to breathe, trembling wildly. “Get out!”
He came forward. “We are leaving for London very shortly and I wish to have a discussion with you.” He closed the door behind him, then faced her.
Rage blinded her. Julianne strode forward and struck him viciously across the face. The slap sounded like the crack of a whip in the small room.
His cheek turned red, but he did not even flinch. “I probably deserved that.”
“Probably?” she gasped.
“I had hoped to leave with your memories of Charles Maurice intact.”
She tried to strike him again; this time he intercepted the blow, seizing her wrist. “I don’t blame you for wanting to hurt me, Julianne, but slapping me will not solve anything.”
She wrenched free. “You meant to leave without my ever knowing the truth about you?”
“Yes, I did. Julianne, you are a Jacobin, in contact with the Parisians. I have survived for as long as I have by trusting my instincts, and my instinct was to play along with your assumption that I was an officer in the army. Obviously I was afraid you would relay my real identity to my enemies.”
“You lied to me! I nursed you, read to you, made you meals—and you lied! I brought you the news—and leapt into your bed! And all you did was play on my sympathies—and lie!”
He said, “It was too dangerous to reveal myself. Keep your voice down.”
She wanted to strike him again—and then claw out his eyes. But she lowered her voice. “We have been lovers for weeks! At any time, before, during or after making love, you could have told me the truth!”
“Actually, I could not.”
“Oh, God! All those smiles, all those shared looks, the tenderness and affection—it was all lies.”
He hesitated. “I am very fond of you.”
She hit him again and he let her. Then she backed away, finally crying. “I fell in love with you!”
“You fell in love with the man you wanted me to be.”
“I fell in love with the man you claimed to be—the man you pretended to be! And that suited you, didn’t it?” Horror consumed her now as she realized how she had played into his hands. “Oh, you meant to seduce me, you meant for me to love you! You ruthless, unfeeling, lying bastard! Get out! Get away from me! Go back to France! I hope you die there!” She wept.
He flinched.
When he didn’t move or speak, she finally brought the tears under control, turning to find a handkerchief in the pocket of another dress hanging on a wall peg. When she turned, he said quietly, “I never meant to hurt you. I meant only to protect myself. Maybe, one day, when you are calmer, you will understand why I acted as I did.”
“I will never understand.”
“I will be in London for several weeks, if you need me.”
She choked. “You disgust me. I would never turn to you for anything.”
“You need only send word to me at my Mayfair home. Ask for Bedford.”
Her addled wits tried to comprehend this. His name was Paget—who was Bedford?
“Julianne. You saved my life. I know you will not be receptive to anything I say today, but I am very grateful and I am in your debt.”
“If I had known that you were a spy, I’d have let you die.”
“We both know you do not mean that.”
The tears arose again, but she fought them.
“I have to go. Your brother is outside with a hired coach. I am very sorry it had to end this way.”
He was leaving. And strangely, her heart suddenly shrieked in protest. Julianne hugged herself, ignoring the sudden dismay. “Good riddance.”
He stood there, his gaze on her face, as if there were more that he wished to say.
And Julianne suddenly wished that Charles would come forward, take her in his arms, and tell her that he loved her. But Charles did not exist! A stranger would be doing so....
She hated him!
He sighed and walked to the door, but paused there. “There is one more thing. You will forget you have ever heard of me, much less that we were acquainted.”
Hadn’t he wanted to sever all ties? Now, she knew why.
“I have enemies, Julianne, but I am confident you are not one of them.”
Julianne seethed, fists clenched. “Go to hell, where you belong.” And then, “Charles was a hero! You, Paget? You are a coward!”
His expression unreadable, he turned and left.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JULIANNE FALTERED AS SHE was passing the guest chamber. Amelia had left the door open after changing the bed. She stared into the empty room, stricken.
Three days had passed since the Englishman had left Greystone, and the shock was gone. In its place was a terrific, raw hurt.
She stared into the room that had been Charles’s for almost an entire month. She fought not to allow a single memory to come to mind. She kept seeing his dashing dark looks, his intent green eyes. She had loved him so deeply, so completely, but she was a fool—she had loved someone who did not exist.
Abruptly, she shut the door. She could not have a broken heart. It was impossible. Being heartbroken was only possible if Charles had truly existed.
Charles Maurice had been an alias. His real name was Dominic Paget.
She shivered. How could she have been so blind? Tom had become suspicious instantly. Hadn’t she wondered time and time again about his tone of voice, his bearing, his eloquence, his education?
But he had always had an explanation, and she had eagerly soaked up his every word.
She trembled. How long would she hurt this way? Paget had held her in his arms, looking at her with smoldering heat while bringing her to the heights of passion; he had held her hand, smiled tenderly at her and gazed on her with warmth and affection. And it had all been lies.
Maybe she would feel better if, at least, that damned Tory spy had loved her, instead of using her for his own ends.
And did he really expect her to forget who he was?
Julianne grimly faced the stairs, aware that she could have her revenge if she really wanted it. Dominic Paget was a spy. How her Parisian friends would love to receive such information.
She faced the stairs, hearing Amelia and their mother in the parlor, struggling for composure. She had told Amelia the bare facts about Dominic Paget, but she had desperately tried to hide her feelings from her sister. She wanted to cry herself to sleep at night, but she refrained. She had allowed herself the luxury of tears only when Amelia was gone and she was alone in the house.
She was also grateful that Lucas was gone, otherwise he might notice her bleak mood—her grief—as well. Not that she owed him anything now. He could interview her endlessly and she would maintain a stony silence! She was furious with him for his failure to alert her to the truth about Paget from the start. But as angry as she was, she was worried, too. Lucas was obviously involved in the war somehow, and she didn’t like it. As a family, they could not survive without him. And she loved him in spite of his deception.
Julianne went downstairs. She noticed for the first time th
at there was a fine drizzle outside. How perfect, she thought, for the day was as gloomy as she felt.
Was he in London now?
Thinking of him that way made her furious, with herself! What was wrong with her? If he was in London, he was at the War Office, giving intelligence to the war secretary!
Amelia stepped out of the parlor, holding a finger to her lips. “Momma has just fallen asleep.”
Julianne forced a smile. “It is the perfect day for an afternoon nap.”
“It isn’t yet noon, Julianne.”
Julianne felt her smile fade. Amelia took her hand. “Help me prepare lunch.”
Julianne allowed herself to be led into the kitchen, suddenly thinking of carrying Charles his meals on a tray. Pain stabbed through her heart and she was angry with herself again.
In the kitchen, Amelia handed her a bowl of string beans to wash and clean. Julianne moved over to the sink. As she filled the bowl with water, Amelia said, “You seem better rested today.”
Julianne supposed she had slept a few hours last night. “Yes.”
“What will you do this afternoon?”
“Read, I suppose.”
“Why don’t you call on Tom?”
Julianne drained the bowl of beans. She turned and looked at Amelia. She was going to have to face Tom sooner or later. In a way, she was eager to rush to tell him what had happened. When he heard about Paget, he would be outraged. He would also write Paris immediately.
But that made her hesitate. On the other hand, this was war.
Amelia said softly, “I think it would do you good to have one of your radical discussions.”
She had shared so many political discussions with Paget. And now she knew why he feared the mobs and accused the Jacobins of inciting violence—why he had regretted the execution of the King, the purging of the National Assembly—why he seemed to mourn the flood of émigrés to Britain. He had been pretending to support the revolution. He was a royalist.
“Julianne, when will we talk about what happened?” Amelia came over to her, her gaze kind but worried.
“There is nothing to talk about. I believed him a hero. But Charles Maurice was an alias.” She sounded so calm!
