by Brenda Joyce
Julianne wished she had never gone through his desk or seen those letters.
JULIANNE WAS VERY SURPRISED as she approached the salon where Sebastian Warlock was waiting for her. She couldn’t even recall when she had last seen her uncle—possibly she had been a child of ten or eleven. But Amelia had said that he and Lucas were close; Lucas must have mentioned that she was staying at Bedford House. She supposed it was fortunate to have a chance to get to know her mother’s brother. But as she hurried down the hall, following Gerard, she thought about the fact that he never came to visit Momma.
Sebastian Warlock was standing by the sofa in the small blue salon with white accents. She faltered. He was a dark, handsome man and somehow formidable. He appeared rather impatient now. He was dressed in drab brown, without a wig, indicating either indifference to fashion or unfortunate circumstances. Having seen his London home, Julianne suspected the case to be the former. She did not recognize him at all.
For one moment he stared at her, his regard going over her from head to toe, quite clearly inspecting her. Julianne was taken aback.
He finally smiled, briefly, and came forward to greet her, taking her hand. “It has been a very long time, Julianne.” He bowed over her hand and released it.
“Yes, it has,” she said, feeling oddly tense. She reminded herself that this man allowed Lucas the use of his home, and Lucas liked him. “This is a surprise, but a pleasant one.”
He studied her for another moment. “You are the surprise, my dear. You are beautiful and you so remind me of your mother.”
Julianne’s tension increased, even though she knew that Momma had been a beauty in her day. “I hope you are flattering me.”
“I just remarked on how pleasing to the eye you are.” His brow lifted.
“You surely know Momma is addled.”
“Ah, yes, I do, just as I know that you are an intellectual bohemian.”
She didn’t know what to say. Was that last a compliment? Had Lucas said anything else? He would never reveal her radical politics to anyone outside the immediate family, she thought. “A great many subjects interest me. I am an avid reader, but I can hardly keep up with my interests.”
His expression was bland. “I believe Lucas mentioned some such thing.”
She was beginning to feel a bit of alarm, although that was surely absurd. Why had Lucas been discussing her? Had he mentioned Amelia? “My sister also reads avidly, although she has a fondness for novels, not journals.”
“I am not here to see Amelia,” he said.
“It is kind of you to call,” she said, awkwardly. “I would offer refreshments, but I am a guest here.”
“I don’t need refreshments. How are you feeling, after your ordeal?”
What, exactly, was he referring to? Did he enjoy keeping her uncertain and puzzled? For she was beginning to sense that he was hardly making a social call. “Did Lucas tell you that I was ill?”
“Lucas is very worried about you.”
She felt considerable trepidation, then.
“I am also worried.” He gestured at the sofa.
Julianne sat, fearing the worst. Surely Lucas hadn’t told their uncle about her brush with the authorities, for by doing so, he would have exposed her radical orientation. “Lucas manages the estate and the family—he always worries, often needlessly.” She smiled firmly, hoping to close the subject.
He slowly smiled, but it was not warm or kind. “Julianne, I have little time to spare. I have called for two reasons. The obvious one being my familial concern for you.”
She smiled again. Lucas had told Warlock that she was ill, she decided. “I was somewhat ill recently, but I am well on my way to a full recovery. It is kind of you to inquire about me.”
“I am speaking about your radical associations, my dear.”
She froze.
“I am speaking about your Society of the Friends of Man in Cornwall, the Rue de la Seine Club in Paris, and of course, about your attendance at the Newgate Convention earlier in the week—and your arrest and imprisonment in the Tower.”
She stood; he took her arm and pulled her back to sit. “You need not fear me. I am your uncle, after all.”
“How could Lucas tell you all of this?” she cried.
“First, I want you to listen to me—and listen well.” He wasn’t smiling now. “I haven’t called on you in years, Julianne, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about your fortunes. And you were very fortunate this time, to have a great peer like Bedford come rushing to your aid.”
She inhaled. He suspected the affair—she was certain.
“Do you truly think to triumph over the British government? This is not France. We are not ready for—or ripe for—a revolution here. Only one of three possible outcomes can meet radicals like you, Julianne—incarceration, transportation or execution.”
She cried out. “You are trying to frighten me. I cannot fathom why Lucas told you all of my secrets.”
“Can you admit defeat and give up your causes?” His stare was hard and direct.
She trembled in fear. “No, I cannot. I cannot—will not—admit defeat. And I am not giving up anything, sir!” She stood again.
He stood, as well. “Then heed me very well. You are not playing a game of cards. You are playing a game that affects men’s lives and causes their deaths.”
It took her a moment to absorb such a dire statement. She gasped. “I am hardly playing a game.”
“Oh, you are playing a game—a dangerous game, my dear. It is a game of us against them. It is a game of life and death. The stakes are so very high, and if you insist upon playing, then you must do so with great care.”
She wanted to end the conversation but she stared, almost mesmerized.
“You have promise,” he said softly. “You are brave.”
“What do you want?”
“This game is akin to chess. We make a move, they counter. I retrieve Paget. You write the Parisian Jacobins. I seek to locate a traitor. You seek to locate a family. It is a game, a very dangerous one, and we are all players in it.”
Did he know that she had been asked to locate the D’Archand family in Cornwall? Julianne was stupefied. Did he consider her a traitor?
And what was he, exactly? Because she did not think Warlock the mere lord of a small estate.
“Were you frightened when Rob Lawton broke up the convention? When you were thrown in the Tower?” He spoke mildly.
“Of course I was!” she cried.
“Good. If you are going to play, then you should be afraid—fear makes one cautious.”
“What does that mean?” She looked up at him.
For a moment, he stared. “The British Convention of the Delegates of the People was ended before it ever began. Tom Treyton was arrested in Edinburgh along with three hundred other attendees.”
Julianne cried out in disbelief!
His expression was hard. “They will be tried for high treason, Julianne.”
She could hardly assimilate what he was saying. How had this happened? And then she realized the dire jeopardy Tom was in. “That is a hanging offense.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I must free Tom!”
He slowly smiled. “I had hoped for just such a response.”
As she met his gaze, she felt nothing but dread.
“I can help Treyton,” Warlock said.
Hope surged. “Then please, do so!”
He nodded slightly. “I will have him released, all charges dropped—if you do something for me in return.”
The dread returned, instantly. “What do you want of me?”
“I want you to continue your radical associations, Julianne. And then you will report back to me.”
It took her a moment to comprehend him. “You want me to spy on my friends and associates?”
“Yes, I do.”
For one moment, she stared, shocked. And then outrage began. “There is nothing familial about this call. You want to use me
. You are despicable!” she cried. “Does Lucas know what you are asking of me?”
“He most certainly does not, and I suggest you keep this conversation to yourself.”
“I intend to tell Lucas how horrid you are immediately!”
“That is not wise, Julianne. Remember, I have what you want—the ability to have Tom released.” His gaze hardened. “I have a few uses for radicals like Treyton, my dear. None of them are pleasant, should you fail to comply, should you speak to your brother, should Treyton remain behind bars.”
She slowly realized what he was saying—he would hurt Tom if she defied him. “You are ruthless!”
“I am. This is war, Julianne.”
She began shaking her head. But even as she wanted to refuse him, she wondered how far he would go. Would he truly torture Tom if she refused to help him?
“I must leave,” he said pleasantly. Julianne wanted to spit at him. Instead, she stared as he picked up his bicorne hat. “I suggest you think carefully about poor Treyton, alone in a cell, at the mercy of his gaolers.” He started for the salon door.
“Better yet, think of Treyton swinging from the gallows, as he will surely be found guilty if I do not intervene.”
Speechlessly, Julianne stared at him. How she hated her uncle.
“I am not all bad, Julianne. Actually, I am a patriot, and I will do whatever I have to do to keep this country safe.” He settled his hat on his head and nodded politely at her. “I expect your answer by the end of the week.”
Julianne watched him leave. Then she ran to the door and slammed it closed, collapsing against it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DOMINIC FOLLOWED the D’Archand’s servant into the salon to await Nadine, remembering the sight of Julianne closing the right-hand drawer of his secrétaire when he had paused on the threshold of the room. His gut churned. She had gone through his desk.
Surely she was not spying on him for her radical friends. But she had told him already that her Jacobin friends in Paris had asked her to locate an émigré family that had settled in Cornwall; what else had they asked her?
He did not want to believe it.
Nadine appeared on the room’s threshold, interrupting his dark thoughts. She was wearing pale pink, a color that suited her olive complexion, and her smile was reflected in her eyes. In that moment, she reminded him of the woman he had known since childhood. But his mood did not lighten. Nadine was a friend and an ally; he trusted her implicitly; he would trust her with his life. But he could not trust Julianne, the woman who was his lover—the woman he cared for.
“I was wondering when you would call again,” she said, a question in her eyes.
He came forward, taking both of her hands and kissing each cheek in turn. “All you had to do was ask.”
“I thought we both needed some time to adjust to being reunited, after such a long separation.”
He guided her to the sofa. Nadine had always been a thoughtful and deliberate person. Her comment did not surprise him. “We have always thought alike. I also needed some time to adjust to our circumstances.”
She studied him as she settled comfortably on the sofa, taking his hand and clasping it warmly—a habit he had forgotten. “I can see that you are worried, Dom. It is mirrored in your eyes.”
He hesitated. He meant to tell her about Julianne, but he needed to carefully segue into the topic. “I have a great deal on my mind, relating to the war and the revolution.”
“Is there news?”
“There is always news.” To divert her, he said, “The Duke of York has decided to besiege Dunkirk, which would be a great prize for London. But I believe York should be marching on Paris.”
“I agree, the road to Paris will not remain open indefinitely, but I am hardly a general.” She shrugged, quiet for a moment. “What is wrong?”
He finally smiled. “I have come into the habit of brooding, Nadine.”
She didn’t smile back at him. “We have both changed so much, haven’t we, Dom? After all we have gone through, it feels as if I danced all those nights away with a someone else—someone without real cares, without any comprehension of war and death.”
“It does feel that way,” he said. “We were so innocent, weren’t we? To think that I used to consider a crisis the failure of a tenant to pay his rents.... I never thought of you as young or naive when we became engaged, but you are so much worldlier now, it is almost as if you are an entirely different woman.”
She shook her head. “I can barely recognize that young girl. She did not have a clue as to the misery and brutality that exists in the world. She had no worries, no real concerns—she was happy, all of the time! Who is happy all of the time, Dominic?” She added, “I have a habit of brooding now, too.”
He said carefully, “You seem happy enough today.”
“I am happy to be with you.” She said softly, “You changed the subject, cleverly, but not cleverly enough. So what is truly bothering you?”
There was no getting past the discussion, he realized. He studied her for another moment, and her gaze was serious and searching. “We have to discuss our affairs, Nadine, but I don’t want to distress you—that is not my intention. You have been through enough.”
She lay her hand on his forearm. “We have always been honest with one another. I refuse to be any other way with you. If there is something you wish to say, even if you feel it might be distressing, you must say so anyway.” She added, “You might be surprised, Dominic. Very little distresses me these days—outside of death and anarchy, war and revolution.”
She was right. They had always been honest with one another, and he had come to tell her about Julianne. He owed her that—he owed Julianne. “I was not truthful when I told your family that I had spent the past months in the country.”
She smiled. “I know.” She stood, moved swiftly to the salon door, and glanced into the hall. Then she shut it and returned to the sofa, saying, “Have you been in France this entire time?”
But he was alarmed. “Do you think you are being spied upon?”
She hesitated. “We have so much to discuss.”
His eyes widened. She was leery of spies—in her own home! “Why would anyone spy on you?”
“Tell me why you felt that you needed to deceive my family, first.” She smiled fleetingly. “And I want to know what you were doing in France, and how long you were there.” She sat back down beside him.
“I have spent over a year and a half in France,” Dominic said. Vague, hazy, horrific images began to form. He would not allow them “When I found Catherine in Paris and we could not find you, I escorted her home—it was late November.” His mother and Nadine had gone to France in the spring of 1791. “I then returned to continue searching for you. I gave up after several months, but by then, I was already Jean Carre, a print shop owner and a Jacobin. I had learned so much about the Jacobins, including those in the National Assembly, that I realized I should stay, continue my charade and send what intelligence I could gather home.” He paused, thinking about his neighbors, whom he had had to deceive on a daily basis. He had taken tea with the baker, reveling in one republican triumph after another, but it had been a facade. He would return to his shop, close up for the evening and become Dominic Paget again.
“Go on,” she whispered.
“But in the spring, there were rumors of an uprising in le Loire. You can imagine how that affected—and excited—me. Those rumors included the name of the rebel leader—Jacquelyn.”
Her eyes widened. “Michel?” she gasped. “Michel—our Michel—leads the La Vendée rebels?”
“Yes. Michel is alive and well and courageously fighting the French army at every turn. I joined him last May.”
“You were there at Saumur?” she cried, aghast.
“We captured an entire division in early May, then consolidated control of the river and town in June.” He knew he must hold the memories at bay, but they had begun to become focused in his mind. The dead
and dying in the bloody river, Father Pierre, lifeless in his arms, Michel screaming that they must retreat.
“Dominic.” Nadine clasped his cheek, her gaze worried.
He jerked back to the present. “I am sorry. We were defeated outside Nantes at the end of June.”
“I heard. I cannot believe you were there—thousands died! How is Michel?”
“The last time I saw him, alive and well and determined.”
“Is there a way I can get a letter to him?”
He started.
“He is my friend—I have known him for years.”
“Yes, there is a way to reach him,” Dominic said. He hesitated.
She took his hand in both of hers. “There is bad news, isn’t there?”
“Do you remember Father Pierre?”
“Of course I do. He married my cousin Lucien—he buried my mother.”
“He died in that last battle.”
She choked. “He was an old man! He was fighting the French army?”
Dominic nodded, putting his arm around her.
She trembled, but did not move into his arms as she would have done two years ago. He reached into his coat pocket and handed her a kerchief, which she dabbed against her eyes. She was, he saw, determined not to cry. “When will this bloody war end?” she asked tersely.
“I don’t know.”
She pulled away and he let her go, but she looked at him. “The war has changed me, Nadine,” Dominic said. “And it has also changed my life.”
“Of course it has. No one can be the same. Not if you have lived through a single battle, a single riot.” She inhaled. “I am not the same.”
“But you remain a beautiful and intelligent woman—more so than ever. You remain extraordinary.”
Her eyes were wide and riveted upon him. “Why am I certain that you are about to let me down, somehow?”
He found it hard to speak now. “My feelings for you have not changed. I am your most ardent admirer, your most loyal friend. But I have changed, Nadine, greatly, and I will never be able to go from ball to ball with you again.”
