by Brenda Joyce
She stared, hands clasped. “I would dearly love to go to a ball. But it would feel a bit absurd. What are you trying to say?”
“I cannot marry right now. In fact, I don’t know if I will ever think of marriage again.”
She stared, clearly surprised, but otherwise, he could not tell what she was thinking. Once, she had been so transparent! “I know there are contracts. I know I gave my word. But marriage has become an impossibility.”
“I see,” she said. And then, very softly, “You are going back, aren’t you? You will return to your print shop and your life as Jean Carre.”
A lie formed, on the tip of his tongue. But he had known her for too long, and he trusted her with this secret. “I will take up a new alias, actually.”
She breathed hard. “I want to go back with you.”
“Absolutely not!” He was aghast. He had expected her to, perhaps, make a plea to continue the engagement—not this. “Why would you want to go back to France? This isn’t about our engagement, is it?”
She stood, her dark eyes flashing. “No, it’s not. I have my own story to tell, Dom. I suffered grave injuries in the riot, but broken bones heal in months—not a year and a half.”
He stared up at her. He had wondered what had taken her so long to return to Britain.
“I was rescued from the mob by a kindly shopkeeper,” Nadine said. She was pale now. “He witnessed the riot, and after the mob left, he found me unconscious in the street. He thought I was dead, but I was very much alive and he took me in. His wife and daughter cared for me until I healed. They are wonderful, good, simple people, who live in fear that their treason to the state will one day be found out.”
He stood and took her hand, aware of the anguish she was fighting. “Do you remain in contact with them?”
“No, it would put them in jeopardy.”
His mind turned that over. “What kept you from coming home immediately?”
She shrugged free of his grasp and slowly paced. “I discovered a mother and her daughter, hiding in a vacated shop, terrified for their lives,” she said, pausing before a window and staring at the gardens outside. “They were from a titled family. That was their crime. Her husband had been dragged from his bed in their home in Marseilles, and clubbed to death—in front of their daughter. Both women were raped. Marianne and Jeanine were then left as rubbish. They fled to Paris, hoping to find relatives. They did not—their family was gone. I hid them in an empty cellar for several months while I endeavored to find the means to transport them to Le Havre and then on to Britain. Eventually I made the right contact. I met a Frenchman in the gendarmerie who is actually a royalist—I believe he might still be in the police, actively aiding and abetting people like Marianne and Jeanine. Or, he could have been found out. And he could be dead.” She turned to face him now.
“You could have been found out,” he said quietly.
“Yes. Once I had my contact, Marianne and Jeanine were on their way to safety. And I had learned that I could help people like them, like me, escape the horrors of the Cordeliers, the Brissotins, the Girondins—the Jacobins. Marianne and Jeanine were the first of a dozen men, women and sometimes children that I helped smuggle through France.”
“What you did was courageous, Nadine—and dangerous. Thank God you got out of France safely.”
“I have no regrets.”
“I won’t allow you to return to France. You can help us here, in Britain, instead of returning to France where you will surely, eventually, be uncovered and executed.”
She trembled. “A part of me dreads going back. I lived in constant fear, and I am hardly deluded! In fact, the reason I went home was not just because I missed my father and sisters. A haut gendarme was terribly interested in me. I believed he had learned the truth and that it was no longer safe for me to stay in Paris.”
“Then I am grateful you left when you did,” he said. Now he understood her fears of spies—perhaps, she was being hunted by French agents. “Stay here in Britain, Nadine, and I will put you in touch with the right men—men who are in need of your talents and skills.”
She hugged herself, as if her bare arms were cold. “You shouldn’t go back, either.”
“I am going back.” He was firm.
And then he saw the tears that had arisen in her eyes. “You never cry.”
She brushed at them. “I have learned how to cry, Dominic.” She hesitated. “You said your feelings for me haven’t changed, but I am sensing that they have changed. And if they have, I understand. I am not the same woman you left at a ball two years ago, just as you are not the same man. Neither one of us has time for romance now.”
He tensed, instantly thinking of Julianne. He wondered if he should conceal the fact that he was involved with her. Carefully, he said, “You are not arguing for our marriage.”
“No, I am not. Like you, I have lost interest in our marriage, but not because of you—because of the revolution.” She trailed off. Her gaze was suddenly distant. “I cannot marry now. As you said, marriage is an impossibility.”
“So I have not hurt you?”
“No, you haven’t hurt me.” She smiled and walked back to him. “I still love you. I will always love you. I could wait for you, if that is what you want—or, when this terrible time is over, we could decide then if we wish to finally make a union.”
He knew he had to tell her about Julianne. Very carefully, he said, “I was wounded before I left France.” He did not like dissembling but he would do so now, to protect her from worrying about him. “I spent the month of July recovering in Cornwall.”
“You tell me this now? How badly were you hurt?”
He hesitated. “I almost died.”
She stared, aghast.
“But I survived. I was nursed night and day through a terrible infection and a fever by a single woman—Julianne Greystone.”
Nadine started. “Is she related to Lucas and Jack Greystone?”
“How do you know the Greystone brothers?”
“They helped me escape France, Dominic.” She added, “Jack Greystone saved my life.”
He started. “By getting you out of the country?”
“The gendarmerie attacked us on the beach, just before we could make it to his ship. Several men were shot. I was almost shot.”
“What happened?” he demanded.
“Someone betrayed us. The gendarmerie were hiding at the cove when we arrived, and they ambushed us. It was a terrible battle. I am indebted to Greystone, who shielded me from the fire with his own body. He got me off the beach and onto the ship and he was wounded instead of me—although he never said a word.”
He owed Jack Greystone doubly, Dominic thought, grim. He stared more closely at her, certain that she was recalling that night in bitter detail. “Julianne is one of his sisters, Nadine. I happen to know them both, somewhat. Lucas and Jack got me out of France together.”
She was incredulous. “It is such a small world! You said they took you to Cornwall? Our new home is outside the village of St. Just. Do you know it?”
“Yes, I do. The earl is a friend of mine and I was at Greystone Manor, which is a short ride away.”
She smiled oddly at him. “How ironic this is—his sister saved you and he saved me.”
“Yes, it is very ironic.” He cleared his voice. She glanced at him and he said, “Julianne is currently at Bedford House. She is my guest.”
“Good. I want to meet her.”
He almost winced. “Nadine—there is no easy way to say this. I hope you will understand. I have come to care for her—and not just as a friend.”
For a moment, she stared blankly at him. Then her eyes widened.
When she simply stared, in abject surprise, he said, “So when you asked me if my feelings for you have changed, my answer remains no, they have not. However, I have been—” he hesitated “—pursuing Julianne.”
She continued to stare, now incredulous. “Are you in love?” she finally asked.
He became uncomfortable. “Why would you ask me such a thing?”
“You just told me that you are pursuing someone else, when we remain officially betrothed. Are you jilting me because of her?” Nadine asked, rather calmly.
He flushed. “I am going back to France. I refuse to do so and abandon my bride,” he said flatly. “You know the risks as well as I do of being an agent in that country. And I am not in love.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Is she your mistress?”
He choked. He knew he must deny it, for many reasons—including that Lucas Greystone must never find out. “Nadine, she is a gentlewoman.”
“Yes, she is—which means that, if you seduced her, you are a complete cad. Not to mention that you owe her brothers for saving your life. I happen to know that you are not without morals, so that leads me back to my first question—are you in love?”
He wondered if he flushed. “Hardly,” he snapped. “I do not like being interrogated. In any case, she is my guest right now, and you will undoubtedly meet.”
“Oh, you are riled! This subject—this woman—has you in a snarl.” Nadine frowned. “I don’t know what to make of this…this…circumstance. I have lost you not to the war, but to another woman—to a mistress!”
“You have not lost me—you will never lose me,” he said, meaning it.
“I have lost you if you are pursuing her, and not me.”
He stared. Perhaps, in a way, she was right. “You are distressed—but not as distressed as a jilted fiancée should be.”
She grimaced. “I don’t want to marry, but I am distressed. I am confused. We have been apart for two years—still, we have known one another since childhood!”
“Which is why I will always be your most loyal friend,” he tried.
She didn’t hear him, blinking back a tear. “I happen to want you to be happy. But she is only your mistress. Unless, of course, you are actually in love. Are you considering marrying her?”
It was his turn to be taken aback. And he wondered how he would feel about marriage to Julianne if Britain and France were not at war, if a constitutional monarchy were restored in France. There was more than the gulf of their political differences and the war between them. He thought about his place in society. It would be a difficult and challenging match, but not impossible—in ordinary times.
“Are you considering marriage to her?” Nadine asked again, surprised.
He frankly didn’t know. And hadn’t he suspected her of treachery, just that morning? “I am very fond of her, but our relationship is fraught with conflict.”
“What on earth does that mean? Is she demanding marriage?”
“No, she is not.”
“So what could possibly cause conflict between you and your paramour?”
He hesitated. She was going to find out about Julianne’s politics sooner or later, as Catherine would never hide the facts from Nadine. “There is something you should know. She has Jacobin sympathies.”
Nadine stared in disbelief.
He felt defensive. “She saved my life, Nadine, and she simply doesn’t understand the realities of the revolution. She has no clue of the anarchy in France. Her desire to serve the common man is admirable, actually. She would give the coat off her own back to a passing stranger—even if it is the only coat she owns.”
Nadine choked. “Listen to yourself! You are defending a Jacobin?” She was incredulous.
“I feel certain that—”
Nadine cut him off. “There is nothing to admire about the Jacobins!” She stared closely at him. “She must be very beautiful.”
He decided not to answer.
“You don’t have to answer,” Nadine cried. “I know she is gorgeous. I know she is sharing your bed. You are in bed with the enemy!”
WHEN WARLOCK LEFT, Julianne sank back down on the sofa, shaking. She covered her face with her hands.
Tom was in dire jeopardy. He was far more radical than she was. He might even approve of Butler’s ideas. He certainly despised the English aristocracy—he had spoken of dispossessing the entire class in one fell swoop, no matter what it took! He had even spoken about overthrowing the king, and having a government like the one in France—run by elected representatives of the population. But Julianne had never really debated him on the merits of such revolutionary ideas, as it was so far-fetched. As Warlock had said, England was not France, and they were not ripe for revolution here.
But Tom’s beliefs were actually treason.
If Tom were charged with treason, she had every reason to believe he would be found guilty.
How could she not do as her despicable uncle had asked? If only there was another way to obtain Tom’s release!
“Julianne?”
She leapt off the sofa at the sound of Dominic’s voice. He stood upon the threshold of the salon, regarding her intently. “You are close to tears. Gerard told me Warlock was here. What has happened?”
Did Dominic have the power to obtain Tom’s release? She hurried forward. “I have never despised anyone more.” Julianne slammed the door closed behind him as his eyes widened. “Tom has been arrested. He is going to be tried for high treason.”
Dominic clasped her shoulders. “Calm down if you can.”
“How can I be calm? The authorities broke up the convention in Edinburgh. Three hundred delegates were arrested. One was Tom!”
He released her. “I had heard of the arrests last night. It never occurred to me that Treyton would be one of those arrested.”
“I am so worried—and you are not worried at all.”
He appeared grim. “Treyton is rabidly Jacobin. I think he might be dangerous to men like myself, to men like your brother.”
She froze. Somehow she had forgotten about Tom writing to Marcel and identifying Dominic as a British agent. She trembled, aware that she now had an obligation to tell Dominic the truth. He might be in jeopardy. There could be spies near Bedford House, or even within it.
But she would never forget the look in his eyes when he had caught her at his desk that morning. If she told him what she had done, he would never trust her—and he would hardly help Tom.
She did not know what to do.
“Why are you wringing your hands?”
She released them. “He cannot be tried for treason. What if he is hanged? He is my friend—I have known him since childhood.”
“What else did Warlock say?” He spoke calmly—too calmly.
She inhaled. Warlock hadn’t forbidden her from revealing their conversation to Dominic, but she was fairly certain she was supposed to keep it secret from everyone.
“Julianne? You are ashen.”
“I am afraid of him.”
Dominic’s stare sharpened. “I assume you are referring to Warlock?”
“You must not confront him.”
Dominic took her arm rather forcefully. “What did he want?”
“He wants me to spy for him.”
Dominic seemed shocked. “He said such a thing, directly?”
She nodded and cried, “He wants me to betray my own friends. He wants me to maintain my radical associations and report every plot and activity to him.” She was so sickened. “If I do so, he will have Tom released without being charged. Otherwise, he will hurt Tom—he said so! Dominic, he is my uncle.”
“What did you tell him?” Dominic asked sharply, releasing her.
She stepped back. “I would never spy on my friends. I would never betray the revolution.”
Dominic stared at her, his green gaze hard and almost frightening. Julianne’s tension soared. If only she hadn’t told Tom the truth about Dominic. “Why are you looking at me that way?”
“Because I am reminded of how passionately Jacobin you are,” he said.
He was looking at her with some wariness. She had betrayed him—but he did not know it. He must never know, she thought desperately.
“What aren’t you telling me?” he asked.
She shook her
head, horrified by her own duplicity. “I have told you everything.”
“You are a poor liar.” Abruptly he strode to the sideboard. Julianne stared, uncertainly, as he poured two brandies and turned back to her. He handed her one.
She trembled. “You betrayed me in Cornwall, but I don’t ever want to betray you.”
“Good. Then don’t.” He sipped.
She was so distressed. “What will you do about Warlock?”
“For the moment, nothing. As long as you stay out of his games.”
“That is exactly how he described spying, Dominic, as a terrible, dangerous, deadly game. Is Warlock a spymaster? He must be! Is Lucas a spy?”
“You are not drinking your brandy.”
He wasn’t going to answer her. “How can you be so calm?”
“Hysteria will not solve anything.”
She had to focus on the immediate matter at hand, she thought. Warlock was spymaster, Lucas was involved, somehow, and she had to think about Marcel and what he might be doing. But just then, Tom’s life hung in the balance. “I am terrified that Tom will hang. You helped me. You had me released from the Tower before I was even charged. Surely you can do the same for Tom.”
He took a sip of his brandy. “Why should I help Treyton?”
She gasped and set her snifter down, untouched, on a side table. “For all the reasons I have said!”
“I am sorry, Julianne, but I don’t care that he is your friend. I think he should be imprisoned, where he can do no harm.” He was final.
She saw that he meant his every word. She was aghast. “I can’t let him hang, Dominic. I simply can’t—I won’t. Dominic, I am begging you, if I mean anything to you, you will go out of your way, and against your principles, to help him.”
“That is a low blow. You mean a great deal to me, and my answer remains. No.”
She saw from his expression how set against Tom he was. “My God, my only option might be to do as Warlock has asked.”
“Like hell,” he said, but so dispassionately that she flinched. “You are not playing these spy games, Julianne.” His stare was searching.
