His Forbidden Liaison: A brotherhood of spies in Napoleonic France (The Aikenhead Honours Book 3)

by Joanna Maitland

  By the time Jack had made his way downstairs and out into the inn yard, he was biting his lip to stop himself from laughing out loud. What a woman. She knew precisely what she wanted, and she made straight for it. Definitely a managing female. She reminded him of Cousin Harriet, the formidable old spinster who acted as companion to his mother and who had terrified him since he was in short coats. But Marguerite Grolier did not terrify him. Far from it. She made him want to seize her and kiss her until they were both mindless with passion.

  It was impossible. She was not of his class, and she was a virtuous female. It would be dishonourable to take advantage of her. Besides, even though she was prepared to travel alone with Jack and Ben, her motives were of the highest. She had saved Jack and Ben once, and now she was proposing to do so again. She deserved to be treated like a princess.

  Guillaume sprang down from the carriage and hurried across the yard. "Some of the silk will still have to be carried inside the coach, sir. There ain't room anywhere else. But I've made up a bed on the floor for Herr Benn, with plenty of padding. He should be comfortable enough. Would you like to see?"

  So much for Jack's belief that he had planned for every eventuality. He had forgotten one key factor: Marguerite Grolier. She was only a woman, but she had shown him his error. And his arrogance. She was the one who had had everything worked out in advance.

  Everything except a role for Jack. He smiled at the memory of her shocked response to his ultimatum. She would travel as his betrothed not as his wife, he decided, relenting a little. If they were to be on the road for two or three days, they could not travel as man and wife without risking her reputation. As man and wife, they might be expected to share a bedchamber. As a betrothed couple, they would sleep apart, and be expected to behave with circumspection. Her reputation would be safe.

  And so, he vowed, ignoring the urgings of his body, would her virtue.

  Chapter Six

  The city of Lyons was very fine. Approaching it from the south, Jack had seen splendid and imposing buildings and magnificent churches, their spires and towers straining up towards heaven, but now that the coach was actually driving through the streets, he was struck by how tall the houses were, and how richly embellished. Lyons was clearly a very wealthy city, at least partly built on centuries of silk.

  "Remarkable." He smiled across at her. "Lyons seems to have almost as many bridges as Paris."

  "We need them more than Paris does," Marguerite replied, returning his smile so warmly that it lit up her features. "Lyons has two rivers to contend with. The city is grown so big now that it covers the banks of both. Wait and see."

  They had agreed during the journey that they must become much less formal in their use of names, as befitted a betrothed couple. She was to call him "Jacques"—the name "Louis" was best avoided—and he would call her "Marguerite", at least in public. Jack no longer thought of her as "Miss Grolier". In his mind, she was now "Marguerite", though he had not yet used her given name while they were alone. He was sorely tempted to try it, if only to see her bristle, for she bristled delightfully, raising her hackles like a small pet dog confronted by a large and intimidating newcomer.

  Teasing her was the most he dared to do now, and even that was dangerous. Touching her, however innocently, was out of the question. It produced a physical response that was all too visible, for his lust for his lovely Amazon was growing more uncontrollable with every passing day. Still, his torture must end soon. They would part here in Lyons.

  They had left the Rhone bridge and were driving straight across the peninsula that lay between the two rivers. Narrowing his eyes, Jack could see another bridge some hundreds of yards ahead of them, presumably across the Saône. While he was focusing on that distant vista, the carriage entered a huge open space, and he gasped in surprise. It was enormous, big enough to muster an army, and surrounded by tall buildings with grandiose facades. Very few of them matched, but the effect was harmonious, softened by the bare but feathery branches of dozens of ancient trees.

  "They say this is one of the finest squares in Europe," Marguerite said with a note of pride in her voice. "It is, or rather was, the Place Napoleon. They changed the name last year, but perhaps they will change it back again, now that the Emperor has returned." She had talked admiringly of Bonaparte throughout their journey together. Clearly she felt she could speak frankly to a fellow supporter. At first, Jack had had to watch his every word, but after three days on the road, he now spoke as if he, too, were an ardent Bonapartist.

  He stuck his head out of the window to admire the square, so that he could respond to her sunny mood. "That statue is not of the Emperor." It was a huge sculpture of a man on horseback.

  "No. It is King Louis XIV. He deserves his place there. Like the Emperor, he gave France glory, and a place in the sun."

  "True," Jack said quietly. The sound of Bonaparte's name on her lips was profoundly depressing. He tried to concentrate on the city instead. The carriage was leaving the square and the bridge was only a hundred yards or so further on. He could clearly see the oldest part of the city on the far bank of the Saône. The houses were tall, and narrow, and seemed to be piled up on one another like a child's bricks, to fill the narrow strip of flat land between the river and the steep slope behind. Almost directly ahead of them, on the right of the bridge, was a huge, ancient cathedral, with two towers.

  "Not much further now," Marguerite said, leaning forward eagerly.

  Jack could hear the impatience in her voice. It was understandable that she should want to get home to her family in such uncertain times. Unlike Jack, she had not suffered agonies of frustration during all those hours in the coach. She was too virtuous to be at the mercy of the demon lust.

  In an attempt to divert his thoughts, he had tried to draw her out about her family during the tedious hours on the road, but he had not learned very much. There was a definite reticence there. Her father travelled a great deal, apparently, in order to find markets for their silk. Marguerite and her younger sister, Suzanne, ran the business during his absence, for their mother was some kind of invalid. With an absent father, and no brothers, it was no wonder that Marguerite had become a managing sort of female. He had no doubt that she ran the business extremely well. She did everything well. Including innocently tempting Jack.

  "The area round the cathedral, St Jean, has been the home of silk-weaving for generations. Or, at least, it was. Now the jobbing weavers are setting up on the hill at the north end of the peninsula, where the houses have the high ceilings they need for their looms." Seeing Jack's puzzled look, she continued, with a shake of her head, "I can see that you know nothing about silk, sir. The new Jacquard looms are immensely tall. They do not fit in our old workshops."

  "I see," Jack said, though he was not sure that he did. Did that mean that the Grolier business was not involved in these new looms? From some of the things that Marguerite had not said, he suspected that their business was struggling to survive. He knew for a fact that both sisters took their turn at the looms. Perhaps they could not afford to employ the jobbing weavers at all? He was about to probe a little further, when the carriage turned right into the square behind the cathedral and slowed almost to a stop. The square was full of colourful market stalls, selling everything a family might need, from live chickens to baling twine. There was barely room for a carriage to edge through, especially as the press of shoppers seemed to have no intention of making way for them.

  "Don't concern yourself, sir. Guillaume knows the width of this coach to a hair." She sat quite relaxed in her corner. Clearly there was no point in worrying.

  A few minutes later, the coach drew up in front of a fine house of many storeys in a narrow, gloomy street. From inside the coach, it was impossible to see the sky. The street was deserted, which was as well, for the coach was blocking the full width of it. Jack jumped out and let down the steps for Marguerite to alight, but she was bent over Ben, yet again checking his brow for fever. She was unlikely t
o find any signs to concern her, for he was mending well. Mercifully, he was still insensible. Her laudanum strategy for the journey had worked wonderfully well. At each night stop, Ben had been carried into the inn and laid in a bedchamber shared with Guillaume, who tended to his bodily needs. Nursing was not necessary, and so Marguerite had been able to sleep undisturbed. And alone.

  Jack wanted to curse aloud. Why on earth had his mind returned to that? Again? He had been trying so hard not to think about her in that way, though the image of Marguerite asleep, with her fair curls spread across a white linen pillow, had been haunting him. Especially at night. There was no doubt that her sleep had been longer and more restful than his.

  He started for the horses' heads so that Guillaume could climb down from the box. He had been driving for hours, only occasionally permitting Jack to take over, and then only for short spells. The poor man must be very stiff and cold.

  "Marguerite. Oh, Marguerite, we were so worried about you." A small whirlwind had emerged from the house and thrown itself into the carriage. Jack turned, but caught only the briefest glimpse of a very slim figure in a plain brown dress with a mass of fair curly hair. This must be Suzanne, the younger sister. Her hair was lighter that Marguerite's, but otherwise they were probably very like.

  Jack strolled back to the open carriage door and peered into the gloom. He had expected to see the two women embracing, but they were not, though Marguerite's arm had been thrown across her sister's shoulders. Suzanne was not even looking at her sister. Her worries appeared to have vanished. She was staring down at Ben's inert form with wide glowing eyes, and tightly clasped hands, as if she had never seen such a beautiful sight in all her life.

  He was gone at last. Thank goodness. Now she must act.

  Marguerite seized her sister's hand and pulled her away from the sofa where Herr Benn lay motionless. "Suzanne, you must listen to me. Mr Jacques may return at any moment. Suzanne!" She was almost screaming the word into her sister's ear.

  It had no effect. Suzanne was still gazing, rapt, at Herr Benn's face. "What is his name?" she asked dreamily.

  Oh, heavens. As if there were not enough dangers surrounding them. Marguerite grasped her sister by the shoulders and forced her to turn away from the blond vision on the sofa. "His name is Benn, and he—" She broke off. It would be best to tell no one, not even Suzanne, that Herr Benn was an English spy. What they did not know, they could not betray. "He is a German. I do not know his given name."

  "Mr Benn." Suzanne rolled the sound caressingly round her tongue. She sounded nothing at all like her normal, retiring self.

  "Suzanne, pay attention. We are in real danger. Have you not heard that Bonaparte is on his way? That he will soon be in Lyons with an army at his back?"

  "Oh, yes. But the King's brother is here to defend us, and the army has already marched out to meet the monster. I imagine he will be stopped long before he reaches Lyons."

  Marguerite was nothing like so certain, but she would not frighten her sister by voicing her doubts. "You may well be right. What matters now is that there are many here in Lyons who will support the usurper. As royalists, we will be in danger if anyone suspects where our sympathies lie. We have always been careful in the past, but now it matters more than ever. So no one in the household must say a word, either for or against Bonaparte. Not a word to anyone. Anywhere."

  "But surely we are safe enough inside our own house? Guillaume and Berthe believe in the cause, as we do."

  Marguerite nodded towards the still figure on the sofa. "We are not alone here. Herr Benn may come to his senses at any moment. And Mr Jacques has very sharp ears."

  "You think they are Bonapartists?" Suzanne gasped. "Then why did you bring them here?"

  "I cannot be certain where their sympathies lie, Suzanne." Marguerite knew the truth all too well, though it would do nothing but harm to say so. In the last hours of their journey, she had extracted a promise from Jacques that he would not talk about their beloved Emperor in the house, for fear, she had said, of royalist neighbours and eavesdropping servants. Now she must secure a similar promise from her sister. "Promise me that you will not talk about the King, or about Bonaparte, until this is over. Promise me, Suzanne."

  "Oh, very well. I promise, though I don't see why it should be necessary."

  "It is necessary because men love to fight. Royalists will attack Bonapartists who will attack royalists. If we appear to have no sympathies either way, they will have no grounds to molest us." She put a comforting arm round Suzanne's shoulders. "You know how vulnerable we are, my dear, with so many other houses ready to pounce on Grolier's. If they even suspected the truth about Papa, we would have been swallowed long since."

  Suzanne nodded. She had begun to look a little scared. "Yes, I'm sorry. You are right. I promise."

  Marguerite smiled in relief. "Now, you must talk to Berthe and ensure that she promises, too. Don't bother about Guillaume. He is already well aware of what needs to be done. And he has always been close-mouthed."

  "But what about Mama? She would never give you such a promise. And even if she did, she would forget to keep it. You know how it is with her."

  Marguerite had been considering that problem for hours. "You must tell Berthe to keep Mama as close as possible. She rarely ventures out of the house, which is a blessing, but it would be best if she were not to meet any visitors."

  "But we cannot treat her like a prisoner."

  "No, of course not," Marguerite agreed at once. "If she should chance to meet any visitors, you and I must try to ensure that she does not start talking about the monarchy and the importance of the aristocracy." Suzanne was shaking her head sadly. They both knew that, once their mother started on her favourite subject, she was not to be diverted. "And if we cannot stop her, we will have to make it clear that she is raving." Marguerite sighed. "That should not be too difficult to do. No one will believe anything she says once they realise how ill she is in her mind."

  At that moment, Marguerite heard booted feet in the passageway outside. It was probably Jacques, returning from helping Guillaume with the unloading. Her heart began to race. She put a warning finger to her lips. "How has the silk been progressing while I have been away?" she asked brightly, as the door opened.

  "Forgive me, ladies. I was looking for— Ah, there he is." Jacques strode across the room to the sofa and stood looking down at Herr Benn.

  "Suzanne, you must allow me to present Mr Jacques, who travelled with us from Marseilles." Suzanne smiled and curtseyed. Jacques bowed, but his eyes remained on Marguerite. "I think I may owe him my life, sister," Marguerite continued, "for he saved me from a knife attack in Marseilles."

  Suzanne gasped. "You did not tell me that."

  Jacques was smiling warmly down at Marguerite. "I am sure she also did not tell you, Miss Suzanne, that she saved both myself and my companion when we were attacked by ruffians on the quayside. If your sister had not taken us into her carriage and whipped up the horses, we would have been at their mercy. And they did not look the merciful kind." He reached for Marguerite's hand and raised it to his lips, keeping his gaze locked with hers all the while. "We are very much in your debt, ma'am." All at once, his voice was much deeper than usual.

  Marguerite could feel herself blushing. Her throat was so tight that she could not say a word. And the skin of her hand was burning, even from that tiny touch of his lips. It took several seconds for her brain to register that he was still holding her hand. Why? He had been deliberately avoiding her touch since their departure from Rognac. Yet now he was not only touching her skin, he was kissing her hand. It made no sense at all.

  "You exaggerate, sir," she managed at last, in a shaky voice, forcing herself to pull her fingers out of his grasp before her legs gave way beneath her.

  He shook his head, but he did not argue. She was relieved, and grateful for yet another example of his impeccable manners. He was most certainly a gentleman. A strange question struck her then. Why would a gen
tleman wish to enlist as a common soldier in Bonaparte's army? She should have thought of that before, but Jacques had created such turmoil in her mind that she had rarely been able to think at all.

  "Is something wrong, ma'am?" he asked gently, still gazing down into her face. "For a moment, you looked quite worried."

  "Oh, it was nothing. I was…" She swallowed hard. "I was thinking about Herr Benn. We need to arrange a bedchamber for him."

  "You are most kind, ma'am. But it will not be necessary. Benn is in no danger now, so if Guillaume can lend a hand, we will carry him to the inn. The Croix d'Or further along the street looks respectable enough."

  "No." Both sisters gasped out the same word in the same instant.

  "No, sir," Marguerite repeated firmly. "You cannot take him to a public inn. For who would look after him? He still needs careful nursing. You would not trust him to the mercies of the tavern wenches, would you?"

  "Actually, I was planning to look after him myself."

  "Twenty-four hours a day? The innkeeper certainly wouldn't let his servants help you. He would probably insist you had Herr Benn taken to the Hôtel Dieu so that the nuns could nurse him."

  "There can be no question of it," Suzanne said flatly, in a voice more determined that Marguerite had ever heard her use before. "We owe you a debt, and we shall repay it by nursing your companion. Here, in this house. Say no more about moving him to an inn, I beg of you, or to the Hôtel Dieu. Such a thing would shame us. You must both remain here with us until Herr Benn is quite recovered."

  "Your offer is more than generous, ma'am, but I— It is bad enough that your sister has nursed Herr Benn all through the journey from Marseilles. I could not possibly impose on her to continue."

  "There is no need," Suzanne said quickly. The skin of her cheeks had turned a delicate rose, but her gaze was intent. "I shall nurse him myself."

  "You should not be here, Miss Suzanne. This is a man's bedchamber." Guillaume sounded more than a little concerned.