Velvet

by Jane Feather

  Nathaniel laughed shortly. “Yes, terrified.”

  “And that didn’t do you any harm?”

  “A little healthy fear builds character,” he responded, shrugging.

  But what kind of character does it build? Gabrielle kept the question to herself, reminding herself yet again that she wasn’t interested in understanding the twists and turns of the spymaster’s personality.

  “Do your agents tell you that Napoleon has demanded that Talleyrand join him in Warsaw?” she inquired casually.

  “Yes.” It was a curt affirmative.

  “Do they also tell you that Talleyrand intends to try to persuade Napoleon to support the Polish patriots?” She paused at another portrait, apparently giving it her undivided attention.

  Nathaniel had not heard this. The inner workings of the mind of Napoleon’s Minister for Foreign Affairs were as much a closed book to him as to everyone. However, it didn’t suit him to admit that at this point. Gabrielle, although she didn’t know it, was on trial.

  “So what?” he said dismissively.

  “Well, I should have thought it of some interest. Talleyrand’s convinced Napoleon is simply interested in milking Poland of her wealth and her military resources while leading them on to believe he’ll do something concrete for their independence.”

  “I should have thought that was obvious to anyone watching the way Napoleon conducts himself.”

  Gabrielle frowned at this snub. She had various little nuggets of information provided by Talleyrand to feed Nathaniel in order to gain his confidence, but if he was as indifferent to them as he appeared, she would have her work cut out for her.

  “And I suppose it’s also obvious why Talleyrand, unlike his emperor, is in favor of a strong, independent Poland?” She was still examining the portrait of Nathaniel’s mother—a haughty-looking woman who seemed a perfect match for the intimidating Gilbert.

  Nathaniel looked at her averted back. She held herself very straight, he noticed, her shoulders back, her head high. Her stance was as uncompromising as the rest of her, he reflected. “I can guess,” he said. “Tell me your version.”

  She turned, laughing. “That’s an underhand trick, sir. But I’m not about to fall for it. I have every intention of winning our wager.”

  He raised a skeptical eyebrow and said derisively, “Only fools are overconfident.”

  Gabrielle lowered her eyelids, hiding the burning anger in her eyes. They would soon see which of them was the fool.

  She shrugged easily. “We’ll see.” Deliberately she dropped the topic of Talleyrand and Poland, walking over to the long windows looking out across the rolling lawns toward a river running between smooth banks. “What’s the river?”

  “The Beaulieu River. It flows into the Solent. If you like to sail, there’s a boathouse.” He came up behind her, lightly encircling her neck with his hands, massaging the soft skin beneath her chin with his fingers. He didn’t seem to be able to keep his hands off her. The fragrance of her skin and hair seemed to seep into his pores and he dropped his head, burying his nose and mouth in her hair.

  “I don’t know how to sail.” She bent her head beneath the pressure of his, her voice languorous as she slipped into the trance of arousal.

  “I didn’t think there was anything you didn’t know how to do.” His thumbs moved to trace the shape of her ears, his palms flattening against the curve of her cheeks.

  “You don’t know very much about me,” she murmured, rubbing her face against his palms like a cat responding to a caress. How could he do this to her, reduce her to molten lava with the slightest touch? The depths of her bitterness toward him, the power of her need for revenge, were feathers in a gale compared to this physical reaction.

  Fleetingly she saw Guillaume’s face, the passionate black eyes, the wide, humorous mouth, the pointed chin. Fleetingly her skin remembered the feel of his hands on her body—the assured touch of a lover who knew the deepest recesses of her soul.

  Sorrow washed through her as vivid, fresh, and piercing now as in the very early days of her loss. And she was breathless with the pain.

  Nathaniel felt the change in her, felt her pain in his own body, transmitted through the warm, living skin beneath his fingers.

  “What is it?” he whispered into her hair. “You’re hurting, I can feel it.”

  “Just a memory,” she said with an effort, moving away from his hands with a little shudder of revulsion that she couldn’t suppress. She couldn’t share this pain with this man. “I think that concludes the tour, don’t you?”

  He stood frowning at her, feeling that shudder of rejection, hearing the brusque dismissal. Where had it come from? Was she hiding something?

  “Yes, I must go,” he said. “I sent for my bailiff an hour ago. I’ll leave you to amuse yourself. If you wish to write your letter in the library, you’ll find paper and pen and ink in the secrétaire.”

  “Thank you. I’ll stay up here for a little longer, though.”

  “As you wish.” He offered a small bow in farewell and then strode from the gallery.

  Gabrielle stood looking out the window until the pain had subsided and the grief was once more locked away in its corner of her soul, safe from invasion.

  Then she turned and went briskly downstairs, pausing for a few minutes to examine Helen Praed’s portrait more closely. Miles had said Nathaniel had adored her. It wasn’t hard to see why—the goodness and sweetness seemed to shine out of her eyes. She was all soft curves, no harsh abrasions, none of the angles and sharpnesses that Gabrielle knew in herself.

  Had the Nathaniel Helen had loved been very different from the man he now was? He must always have had the sternness, she thought. The forbidding side of his nature. From what she’d seen of his ancestors, it seemed to be a trait of the Praeds. He was an impatient man. But perhaps he had held back that part of himself around Helen.

  He wouldn’t need to be so careful with Gabrielle. She was as hard as he was—hardened, she amended. Hardened in the fire of revolution, of terror, of the loss of so many she loved. But it was a superficial toughness. Guillaume had known that. Nathaniel Praed would never discover it. He would never get close enough to do so.

  In the library she began a methodical search of the room, looking for some indication of where the spymaster might keep his papers and his secrets. There was no point passing up any opportunity for gleaning information.

  Her initial search turned up nothing promising beyond a locked drawer in the desk. But it was a shallow drawer and Gabrielle couldn’t see how it could contain much more than a sheet or two of paper. Sliding the blade of a paper knife between the top of the drawer and the desk, she felt for the hinge of the lock with deft expertise.

  The sound of the doorknob turning sent her spinning away from the desk. The paper knife fell to the carpet, and she dropped to her knees to pick it up, breathing regularly, noticing with satisfaction that her hands were completely steady.

  “Gabrielle?” It was Nathaniel’s voice. “What on earth are you doing on the floor?”

  “I dropped the paper knife.” She stood up, casually laying the knife on the blotter, and smiled easily.

  “Oh.” He looked at her in clear puzzlement. “Why would you need the paper knife? I thought you were writing to your cousin.”

  “I am, but I couldn’t find the ink. I was looking on the desk and knocked the knife off.”

  She watched his expression closely, looking for a flash of suspicion or doubt, but Nathaniel appeared to accept her explanation.

  “The ink’s in the secrétaire with the paper and pen, isn’t it?” He went to the mahogany secrétaire and dropped the desk leaf, reaching into one of the pigeonholes. “Here it is.”

  “Oh, thank you. I forgot where you said I’d find everything.” She hurried over to the secrétare. “I’ll get on with the letter now.”

  “Mrs. Bailey’s laid a nuncheon in the oval parlor,” he said. “I came to see if you were hungry.”


  “Oh, yes … yes, I am. Famished.” She caught up a loosened lock of hair and twisted it into the pins at the nape of her neck. “It seems ages since breakfast.”

  “It is,” he stated. “We left the inn at six o’clock this morning, and it’s now past noon.”

  “Then that explains it. Have you concluded your business with the bailiff?”

  “Tor the moment.” He went to one of the bookcases and pulled out several volumes. “Perhaps you’d like to ride this afternoon. I can’t offer you the excitement of the hunt today, but there’s some hard riding to be done in the New Forest.”

  “That would be lovely,” she responded coolly, her eyes riveted on what had been revealed behind the books Nathaniel dropped carelessly onto a side table.

  Nathaniel’s long fingers were manipulating the locks of a gray metal safe. His back was to her, so she couldn’t see exactly what he did, but the door swung open. She stepped closer, looking over his shoulder. There were papers and an assortment of boxes and pouches inside.

  He drew out a sheaf of papers and riffled through them rapidly before replacing them and closing the door again. Then he manipulated the lock once more and there was a click. He put the books back into the shelves and turned to Gabrielle.

  “Is that where you keep your secrets?” she asked directly, her voice lightly teasing. She had to make some comment; to ignore it would be most peculiar.

  “That’s right,” he agreed with cheerful nonchalance. “The spymaster’s tools of his trade. Let’s go in to nuncheon.”

  He had to be very certain of the impregnability of his safe, Gabrielle reflected, following him out of the library. He’d made no attempt to hide its whereabouts from her, although it was clearly kept hidden from casual observers. But then, why would he assume she’d have any special interest in his secrets? Or that she was in the least untrustworthy? She’d offered her services to the English government and had convinced Simon and Lord Portland of the genuineness of the offer. The spymaster’s only objection to her was her sex. So why should he see a need to hide anything but the safe’s contents from her?

  He didn’t know, of course, that his houseguest was an expert at safe-breaking. What Guillaume hadn’t taught her, Fouché’s policemen had.

  7

  Jake struggled with his tears as he watched Milner lead Black Rob from the stable. The pony was enormous—twice the size of Jake’s Shetland that he’d been riding for the past two years. But Milner said he had to learn to ride a proper pony; his father had said so. But every time Milner put him in the saddle, Jake froze with terror and the tears would pour down his face however hard he tried to stop them.

  “Now then, Master Jake, no tears today,” Milner said with rough kindliness. “’Is lordship’s goin’ to want to ’ear ye’ve been riding Black Rob like a regular trooper.”

  Jake stepped backward as the pony snorted, rolling his lips back over big yellow teeth.

  “’Ere, give ’im a piece of apple.” Milner held out half an apple to the boy. “Put in on the palm of yer ’and, lad, and ’old it up to ’im. Gentle as a lamb, ’e is. He’ll just snuffle it off smooth as you please.”

  Jake shook his head and sniffed. Then he took the apple and tentatively held out his hand toward the fiercesome lips. The pony’s head bent and his rubbery lips parted. At the last minute Jake snatched his hand away and the apple fell to the cobbles. Black Rob calmly dropped his head and cropped the fruit from the ground.

  “Oh, dear,” Milner said, sighing. “What d’you go an’ do that fer?”

  “I’m sorry,” Jake whispered miserably. “It fell off my hand.”

  Milner shook his head. “Well, up ye go, an’ try to be a brave boy this time. We’ll just walk once around the paddock.”

  He lifted the child’s rigid form and ensconced him in the saddle. Jake was as white as a sheet as he clutched frantically at the pommel of the saddle and stared down at the ground, such a dizzying distance away.

  It was at this point that his father and the Comtesse de Beaucaire entered the yard, returning from their afternoon ride.

  “Come on, now, Master Jake,” Milner said in an urgent undertone. “Show ’is lordship what ye can do.” He started to lead the pony around the yard and Jake wailed, unable to help himself as his perch rocked and he could see himself tumbling to the ground beneath the pony’s great iron-shod hooves.

  “What on earth’s the matter?” Nathaniel, still on his rat-tailed gray, rode over to him. “Why are you crying, Jake?”

  Jake couldn’t answer. The tears poured down his ashen cheeks and he clung desperately to the pommel.

  “E’s a bit frightened, my lord,” Milner explained. “Seein’ as ’ow Rob ’ere’s quite a bit bigger than the Shetland. Takes a bit o’ gettin’ used to is all.”

  “He’s terrified,” Gabrielle said. “Poor little mite.”

  “Now, don’t be silly, Jake,” Nathaniel said briskly. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Sit up straight, you look like a sack of potatoes. Let go of the pommel and press your knees into the saddle.”

  The instructions had no effect except to increase the child’s silent stream of tears.

  “Take him up with you,” Gabrielle suggested in a low voice. “He has to get used to being so high up. He’ll feel safe in front of you and he’ll start to relax.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Nathaniel said. “He’s nearly seven. He’s quite big enough to handle a pony of ten hands without being babied.”

  “Some people are frightened of horses,” Gabrielle pointed out. “I don’t understand why, but I think they’re born that way. He can’t help it.” Before Nathaniel could respond, she moved Thunderer alongside Black Rob and scooped Jake off the pony’s back and into the saddle in front of her.

  “Come on, Jake, we’ll go for a ride on Thunderer. He’s much bigger than your pony, but I won’t let you fall.”

  Nathaniel stared for an instant of disbelieving astonishment as Gabrielle walked her horse across the yard toward the gate to the paddock.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord, but ’er ladyship might ’ave a point,” Milner said. “At me wits end, I’ve been, sir, tryin’ to get Master Jake used to the pony, but fair petrified ’e is. Mebbe this’ll do the trick.”

  Nathaniel made no answer, but trotted his horse after Thunderer.

  Jake lost his terrified rigidity as he felt the steady, warm pressure of Gabrieile’s body against his back. When she told him to take the reins, he did so. Her hands covered his, guiding his movements as he directed the big horse in a circle around the paddock.

  “Are you ready to trot?” Gabrielle asked.

  Jake swallowed and nodded bravely. Obeying instruction, he nudged the gigantic gelding with his heels and the horse with a reinforcing signal from Gabrielle broke into a steady trot.

  Grimly, Nathaniel kept pace with them. He was too angry and discomfited by Gabrieile’s assumption of control to say anything, but he watched his son throughout this unorthodox lesson, noticing that Jake knew perfectly well how to ride, and once he relaxed, his posture improved. It was inconceivable to Nathaniel that his son should be frightened of horses. He himself had attended his first hunt at the age of eight and had basked in his father’s rare approval when it came to horsemanship. Gabrielle had the same natural skills and fearlessness. Unlike Nathaniel, however, she didn’t seem to think there was anything out of the ordinary about Jake’s fear.

  It was galling and yet, reluctantly, Nathaniel had to admit that her method showed some measure of success. Jake wasn’t enjoying himself, but he’d stopped crying and was able to concentrate again on the fundamental techniques of horsemanship.

  “Now, how about riding your own pony?” Gabrielle suggested when they’d cantered once around the paddock, Jake hanging on for dear life, white-faced but determinedly silent. “You’ll find it’s nowhere near as high up as Thunderer. Won’t he, Nathaniel?”

  “I should imagine so,” Nathaniel said in frigid tones, turning his hors
e back to the stableyard.

  Jake looked anxiously up over his shoulder at Gabrielle, who returned a reassuring smile, although she was beginning to realize how high-handed and presumptuous her behavior must seem to Nathaniel.

  Back in the stableyard, she swung Jake down to the waiting groom and then dismounted herself. “Would you like me to lead your pony, Jake?”

  “That’s Milner’s job,” Nathaniel stated curtly. He lifted Jake onto the back of Black Rob. “Take the reins and put your feet in the stirrups.” The instructions were brisk, but his hands were gentle enough as they straightened the child’s back and slipped his small feet into the stirrups.

  “How does that feel?”

  Jake just nodded stiffly, his mouth set tight. “Take him to the paddock, Milner.” Nathaniel stepped back and the groom took hold of the pony’s bridle. He clicked his tongue against his teeth and the animal walked on, his small rider rigid in the saddle, but so far dry-eyed and silent.

  Nathaniel and Gabrielle watched for a minute, then Nathaniel said, “Come into the house.”

  He walked ahead of her with a long, impatient stride, and she followed, bracing herself for his anger.

  Nathaniel didn’t waste any time. He closed the library door with a sharp click and demanded, “Just what gave you the right to interfere, Gabrielle?”

  “Well, nothing, really,” she said, drawing off her gloves. “And I’m sorry if you thought that was what I was doing. But it seemed to me that you weren’t going about it right.” Tactless! But it was said now.

  “How I choose to handle my son is my business,” Nathaniel declared, a white shade around his mouth, his lips thinned. “He’s timid and overprotected and he has to learn how to overcome his fear and I will not, I repeat not, tolerate the interference of a managing busybody who has no right whatsoever to presume any authority in my household.”

  It was worse than she’d expected. She’d been perfectly prepared to apologize, but this humiliating castigation was too much to endure in meek silence.

  “Your son may well be your business, Lord Praed, but if you think bullying him will overcome his fear, then you’ve even less understanding of children than it appears … and that’s saying something,” she stated with lamentable lack of finesse.