Seduction

by Brenda Joyce

  Dom wet his lips. Coburg was not marching on Paris? “What about our supplies, sir?”

  “There are French Islands in the West Indies that interest us. Pitt has sent several divisions to the Caribbean to take them,” Windham said. “We are damned short of men, ships and supplies.”

  Dom wanted to curse. “Is that why Coburg is sitting on his ass along the front lines?”

  “Coburg believes it vital to secure our position,” Windham said, disapproval in his tone.

  “Will the Duke of York march on Paris?” Dominic asked, in growing disbelief.

  “He is joining Coburg. Eventually, in a month or so, they will march on Paris.”

  “In a month or two,” Dom muttered. His frustration made him drain his scotch. How could such an opportunity be missed? “The road to Paris has been open since April, when Dumouriez defected, but we will not march on the city and take it? The La Vendée rebels need troops, guns and bread, but those supplies are going to the West Indies?”

  “We can resupply La Vendée in the fall,” Windham said, “but not sooner.”

  “I doubt we can wait that long!” Dom cried. “I came to London to beg for aid, while we remain viable enough to fight the French. Sir, I am begging you now. Divert the aid to us, immediately.”

  “You cannot allow the Loire Valley to fall,” Sebastian said softly.

  Windham said firmly, “We will send a convoy in the fall, and I will keep you apprised of the situation.”

  Dominic knew that it would be a miracle if Jacquelyn and his men survived the summer. But there was no persuading Windham. “Sir, if I may?”

  The war secretary nodded.

  “The war news sounds promising—even certain, for us. But I promise you, victory is not certain in France.” He paused. “France is in anarchy. There are chronic food shortages everywhere. Mobs control the street, easily incited by the Jacobins and the National Assembly. The Commune now links the street with the countryside, and it is run by the city’s most radical elements. The Jacobins have formed a new Central Revolutionary Council to raise armed bands throughout the country, to instill fear in everyone, should anyone think to support an insurgency! France is consumed with two elements—fear and passion. Even those on the side of the revolution fear being labeled an enemy of the republic. The passion of the radicals to spread their world of equality and liberty—or mayhem and death—is like nothing I have ever seen. That passion infuses the officers and soldiers of the French army. You believe the French army a ragged group of conscripts? Oh, they are ragged, indeed—and they are rabidly determined to destroy the Powers of Europe, to free the common man there from tyranny and injustice, and to see the revolution in France to its inglorious end—a republic without elites, without nobility, without prosperity. A republic of the people, and for the people, where no one can have anything that someone else doesn’t have.” Dom halted. “Those conscripts will gladly die for La Liberté!”

  Dom realized he was trembling. A grim silence followed his diatribe. It was Greystone who handed him another drink. Dom took a gulp of whiskey, and said, “This will not be a short war.”

  Windham said grimly, “I hope you are wrong.” Then, “I want a letter from you, Bedford. Detail your needs. And I want a second letter, telling me in writing what you have just told me in person. I have a meeting, so I am afraid this concludes our affairs for today. Bedford, thank you. And thank you, as well, Greystone.”

  Dominic filed out with the others. In the lobby, Sebastian said, “I’d like a word.”

  Dom nodded, not surprised, and quickly said goodbye to Burke and Greystone. He glanced at Sebastian as they walked outside. “Do you know Greystone?”

  “Yes. In fact, I know him rather well.”

  Dominic waited for an explanation, but none came. Instead, Sebastian pointed at a black coach with the shades drawn over the windows. Dominic smiled as they got in. “Do we really need to have the shades down?”

  Sebastian rapped on the glass behind the driver. “St. James Park,” he said. He looked at Dom. “Who shot you?”

  Dom sobered as the carriage moved off. “I believe that I was spied upon in Paris. The radicals are in an excessive state of paranoia, spying on everyone. If I was followed to Nantes, I was uncovered when I joined up with Jacquelyn.”

  “It is fortunate that you lived.”

  “Very fortunate—I can see how moved you are.” Dom was wry.

  Sebastian said, “Didn’t I teach you never to attach yourself to your associates?”

  Dom smiled tightly, without mirth. He thought of Julianne. “Yes, you did. And it is fortunate—for us both—as I am as invested in taking back France from the radicals as you are. Did Jacquelyn send word that I was hurt?”

  “Indeed, he did. I was afraid to allow you to recover in France, in case another attempt was made on your life,” Sebastian said. “That said, I need you to go back immediately.”

  “How immediately?”

  “Within a month, at the latest. Do you have the will to do so?”

  Dom nodded. “Oh, I have the will. I could never turn my back on my friends and family there.”

  Sebastian said, “Good.”

  Dom turned to stare out of the window. They were in St. James Park now, which was lush and green, a few carriages and hacks upon the park’s trails. But he didn’t see the pretty park. “I have held dying men in my arms, men who were my neighbors, my friends and my distant relations. We need aid, Sebastian, desperately.” He lifted his gaze.

  “Pitt is making a huge mistake, going after a few trophy islands in the West Indies. I will urge Windham to find something to divert to Jacquelyn. You are attached, my friend.”

  He thought of Michel, whom he’d known since childhood—and of Julianne. “I am attached.”

  “France was never safe for you. It is even less safe now. Get rid of your attachments.”

  Dom stared at Sebastian. “That is easier said than done.”

  “You are one of my best agents. You are as collected as an agent can be. Yet you feel passionately for France, le Loire, your friend Jacquelyn… It worries me.” He was blunt.

  “The good news is,” he said slowly, thinking of Julianne again, “I am adept at keeping those passions in check.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  Sebastian studied him. “What happened at Greystone? You seem fully recovered. It’s been a month. Why didn’t you come to London a week ago—even two weeks ago?”

  He had been expecting the question. “I was enjoying the holiday.”

  Sebastian seemed to accept that. “What do the two women know?”

  He hesitated. “Both sisters know I am Bedford—and it is worse than that.”

  Sebastian darkened. “How much worse?”

  He hesitated, wanting to protect Julianne now, not just from herself but from Sebastian. “What do you know about the family?”

  “Everything.”

  Could Sebastian possibly know that Julianne was a radical? He hoped not. “Unfortunately, the women assumed I was a Frenchman—and I played along. They now have guessed what I was doing in France.”

  Sebastian looked out the window. “I’ll manage them.”

  He did not like the sound of that. “Is that necessary?” he asked “They are at the end of the land, Warlock. Neither woman gets out of the parish, much less Cornwall.” But even as he spoke, he thought about Julianne, writing to her Jacobin friends in France.

  “Would you leave the fact that they know who you are, and what you have been doing, in their hands? Do you trust them with such information? Would you leave the possibility it would be conveyed into the wrong hands to chance?”

  “What are you intending to do?” Dom asked coldly.

  “Why haven’t you mentioned that Julianne Greystone is an active radical?”

  He was startled. “Because she is probably harmless, and she saved my life.”

  “Is that what you believe? That she is harmless?”

/>   He hesitated. He did not want to pit Sebastian against her. And she wasn’t harmless, she was too easily manipulated. “She means no harm. She has grandiose ideas about the common man—and don’t we all? She is naive, Warlock. She has vast ideas about universal equality and faith that this is what is happening in France. Yes, she could be used by our enemies—but I owe her a vast debt. I won’t have her on your watch list.”

  Sebastian looked at him oddly. “She not only has radical inclinations, she is in correspondence with the Rue de la Seine Jacobin Club. She has been in contact with them for well over a year.”

  He froze. “She is already on your watch list.”

  Sebastian was grim. “Actually, she is not officially on any list.”

  Thank God, he thought. “Then why do you know so much about her?”

  Rather wryly, Warlock said, “She is my niece.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DOMINIC APPROACHED the front hall of Bedford House as Warlock’s coach pulled away. His home had been built centuries ago, but had been renovated and added on to during his father’s lifetime. Rather square and three stories tall, it boasted three round medieval towers, the central tower housing the entry hall. A circular drive had been placed in front of the house, and carefully kept gardens were in the back. Roses and ivy crept along the front walls, and lush lawns slid away to the street beyond the driveway.

  Suddenly the images flashed through his mind—wounded and dying men, the chaos on the front lines, and Nadine, lifeless, a corpse on a cobbled bloody street....

  With difficulty, he jerked back to the present. Why had he just been swept back in time? My God, he was home!

  He blinked and now saw two doormen in royal-blue-and-gold livery standing before the ebony front door, gaping at him. He took a moment to compose himself. He had never needed to be home more. Damn the war.

  He approached, smiling slightly at them, as he bounded up the front steps. Opening the door, they both swept him bows.

  And the vivid memories were gone now. Instead, he paused inside his front hall, glancing around. Little had changed. Gilded chairs in red damask lined the walls. The floors were black-and-white marble, the walls white stucco and the vaulted ceiling above his head was three stories high. Several portraits and landscapes adorned the walls, including an oil of him and his parents, painted when he was a small child. He was home. It was incredible—almost beyond belief.

  His butler came rushing into the hall from its opposite end.

  Shock covered Gerard’s features. “My lord!” he cried, hurrying forward. “We were not expecting you!”

  Dominic smiled. For the next month, he wanted all the comforts—all the peace—his life in London could offer him.

  “Good day, Gerard. You do not have to run. Yes, I am home. Is the Dowager Countess in?”

  Gerard reached him, flushing. “My lord, welcome home! Lady Paget is in the gold room, my lord, with callers.” Gerard was a middle-aged Frenchman who had been with his mother’s family since she was an adolescent. He was slim and gray haired, devoted to Dominic and even more devoted to Catherine. Now he ogled Dominic’s clothes.

  “They are borrowed.” He smiled and strode past the butler, who followed.

  “My lord, what can I get you?”

  “Where is Jean?” he asked, referring to his valet, as he stepped to the threshold of a large salon with sunny golden walls and gilded furniture. His mother was seated at one end of the room with two other ladies, resplendent as always in green silk and emeralds. She saw him immediately. No one, of course, had a clue that he had been anywhere other than in the country, where he had several fine estates, or that he hadn’t had any contact with Catherine in months. “Good afternoon, Mother.”

  To her credit, she did not gasp or cry out, when he knew she was stunned. Instead, her expression hardly changed, although she blanched. Slowly, she stood.

  “I will summon Jean immediately,” Gerard said.

  “I wish to bathe and change,” Dom directed. “Have him draw a hot bath. And, Gerard? Open my best pinot noir. The ’87.” He strode forward.

  Catherine Fortescue Paget was a petite woman with dark blond hair and an exceptional figure. She was tiny, but she carried herself with such a bearing that one did not notice it until he stood close to her. She remained terribly beautiful and very charming—she had turned down a dozen serious offers of marriage in the past five years since William had died. Now, she slowly smiled at him, and he saw how hard she was controlling herself. “You are looking very well,” he said, meaning it. She was stunning in the green ensemble she wore, and she did not look old enough to be his mother.

  “Dominic,” she said, sounding hoarse. He knew she was close to tears. “You have been in the country for far too long.”

  Dominic reached her and took her hands. “Yes, I have, and I am very glad to be home.” He kissed each cheek in turn and then allowed her to introduce him to her callers. Both women greeted him enthusiastically, then told Catherine they would return later in the week, as she clearly needed a moment with her son. Dominic waited, hands in the pockets of his frock coat, as Catherine walked them to the salon doors, thanking them for coming and promising them that she would call on them in several days. “You must bring Lord Bedford,” Lady Hatfield said.

  “I will do my best,” Catherine promised. When they were gone, she turned, and she was ashen.

  “I am fine,” he said softly.

  Tears filled her green eyes. “Oh, Dominic!” She rushed to him and hugged him, hard. Then she stepped back. “What happened to you? Three weeks ago, Sebastian Warlock told me that you had been shot. He said that you would be returning to London when you could travel. But that bastard did not tell me another thing!” She flushed now. When angry, sparks shot from Catherine’s eyes. “I was so furious when he would not tell me anything else!”

  He took her arm and guided her back to the sofa. He would not lie to his mother—but he would not alarm her and tell her that he had been unmasked in France and had been the target of an assassin. “As you know, I joined Michel Jacquelyn and his rebels in le Loire.” He had managed to get a letter to his mother after first meeting up with Michel. “We engaged the French army in May and June, several times. Our first two engagements were very successful—we sent the French troops fleeing. But we were not successful in the third battle. The fighting was vicious. I was shot.” He shrugged, despising the lie he had just told. But it was necessary. Catherine would never recover if she learned that an assassin had been sent after him. “Warlock sent some men to extract me from France. I hardly recall crossing the Channel, but in the end, I survived. As you can see, I am fine.”

  She gave him a disbelieving look. “How badly were you hurt?”

  He smiled at her. “It was a flesh wound.” He would never tell her he had been at death’s door.

  She stared unhappily at him, clearly unconvinced. “Why didn’t you write? Warlock said you’d been taken to Britain, but he would not tell me where you were! I became frightened when I did not hear from you.”

  He hesitated. “I was in south Cornwall, in the hands of a Jacobin sympathizer.” She gasped. He sobered, thinking of Julianne. “But she was very kind and she cared for me. Actually, she assumed I was French army,” he added, and his mother’s eyes went wide. “Obviously I could not reveal myself and one thing led to another.” He thought of their heated affair, no longer smiling. Not for the first time, he wondered if she remained furious with him. “I was not about to write and have my letter intercepted by her or her friends.”

  “God,” she said harshly, “the Jacobins are everywhere! I cannot believe a Jacobin nursed you back to health!” She took his face in her hands and kissed his cheeks, in turn.

  “She was pleasant company,” he supplied.

  Catherine sighed. “Ah, so she was beautiful, and helped to pass the time.”

  He decided not to comment.

  “Sit with me,” she said, moving to the sofa, where she sat.
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br />   He joined her. “When I left, the radicals here in Britain were a tiny fraction of the literate population.”

  She sent him a dark look. “They remain a small group, Dominic, but they are vociferous—as rabid as the Jacobins in Paris. They are holding a convention here in London next week. And that awful radical, Thomas Hardy, is holding a convention in Edinburgh. They would welcome the French army if it ever came to our shores.”

  He looked at her. He hated thinking that she remained as affected by her time in France as he was by his time there, but he was fairly certain that her memories tormented her. When he had found her in France almost two years ago, they had spent several nights in various inns, their rooms adjoining, as they made their way to Brest to escape. He knew she had had nightmares and insomnia.

  He had returned to France within weeks of bringing her safely to London, to search for Nadine. They had not had a decent conversation in the very long year and a half since. “How have you been?” he asked.

  “Worried, of course.”

  “That isn’t what I meant. How has London treated you?”

  She smiled, but it was fleeting. “The revolution has changed this town. Everyone speaks of the atrocities in France on a daily basis, not to mention the war. And now there is even talk of an invasion. Can you imagine? Could the French invade Great Britain? Would they dare?”

  He was calm. “Certainly not in the near future. And if they ever invaded, they would do so far to the north, perhaps in Scotland, or in the south, where there is so much Jacobin sympathy for them.” He thought of Julianne again.

  She stared tersely at him, then took both of his hands in hers. “I go back and forth between London and Bedford Hall. I go to teas and supper parties, the theatre and balls, and once in a while, there is a suitor whom I encourage. Not because I am interested in going to the country, or going to a ball, or having a courtship, but because I am still alive, and it is what a woman must do.”

  His heart lurched. “I am sorry I was gone for so long.” Catherine needed to remarry, he thought, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought about that before.