Velvet

by Jane Feather

  Against her better judgment, Gabrielle persevered. She hadn’t intended to say anything at all yet, but somehow the long intimacy of the afternoon had blunted her natural caution and the words had formed themselves and spoken themselves.

  “I just wonder if you’ve considered all the aspects,” she said, kissing his ear.

  “Don’t do that, Gabrielle.” Nathaniel jerked his head sideways. “I don’t like it.”

  “You don’t like my kissing your ear, or talking about Jake?” In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “The latter,” he said. “It’s not your business, and you have no right to presume on the basis of what … of what we’ve been doing all afternoon.”

  “It’s called making love, I believe.” Gabrielle sat up. “And I don’t mean to presume. But there are other ways of looking at things and maybe you’re being a bit shortsighted.”

  Nathaniel sighed. “I would really appreciate it if you didn’t spend time discussing my private affairs with my staff while you’re here.”

  Gabrielle gulped. Was that what she’d been doing? “Miss Primmer was very upset. I just asked her what the matter was.” She could hear the defensive note in her voice.

  “And she poured out her woes and her opinions into your receptive ear, presumably hoping that you would use your influence while my guard was down.”

  Gabrielle winced. “I don’t believe that was the case. She doesn’t strike me as manipulative, poor woman.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Nathaniel gave up the attempt at restraint. “Poor woman, indeed. You’ve been listening to her wailing and now I’m some harsh and exploitative employer turning out a pathetic, homeless crone—”

  “Oh, stop it!” Gabrielle lost her own temper. “That’s not it at ail, and you know it. She was very insistent about your generosity, but she was concerned for Jake—as we all are, presumably even his father!” She glared at him through a veil of unruly dark red curls.

  Nathaniel swung out of bed. “Yes, even his father. I think you’ve said enough, Gabrielle. If we’re to salvage anything of this afternoon, I suggest we part company and cool off.”

  Dismissals didn’t come much clearer than that. If she wasn’t careful, he’d be calling a halt to their interlude long before the two weeks were up, and she’d have failed.

  Without a word Gabrielle slipped from the bed, gathered up her discarded garments, and went naked to the connecting door.

  “Don’t forget that you were the one who pointed out that passion can’t exist in a vacuum,” she said as she left. She closed the door behind her with deliberate softness.

  Nathaniel swore under his breath as he looked around the room at the tumbled covers and the remains of their lascivious picnic. Lustful interludes with ho strings to the future and no connections with the past. Who on earth had they been trying to fool?

  10

  The memorandum was clear and precise: Le liévre noir removed June 6, 1806. Agent six disappeared during assignment, presumed dead. No repercussions—death before capture is presumed.

  Gabrielle stared down at the paper in her hand, stared down at Nathaniel’s elegant script. A jet of fury leaped through her veins with all the vigor and crystal clarity of the fountains in the gardens of Versailles.

  She’d known it, but the confirmation, here in her hand, burning into her eyes, shook her more deeply than she could ever have believed it would.

  The document belonged in a file of private memoranda—notations, emotionless statements of the success or failure of various enterprises under Lord Praed’s direction. It was the spymaster’s personal, professional diary. And it contained the confirmation of Guillaume’s death as it was ordered by Nathaniel Praed.

  Gabrielle took a deep, slow breath and looked around Nathaniel’s bedchamber. Late afternoon shadows gathered in the corners of the meticulously tidy apartment. There were very few personal touches in the room, which was furnished with an almost spartan simplicity.

  The house was very silent and there was a curious suspended quality to the quiet. The ormolu clock on the mantel chimed four o’clock. Nathaniel wasn’t expected to return from his ride around the estate with the bailiff until close to dusk, but there was no point taking chances. There was still much to be learned from the file, but the search of Nathaniel’s chamber had taken the best part of two hours and it was all too easy to make mistakes at the end if one cut things too fine.

  Gabrielle slipped the folder back into the cavity beneath the false bottom of the top drawer of the armoire. She stared down into the space, concentrating as she pictured the position of the folder when she’d first lifted the false bottom. Satisfied that the folder was replaced at exactly the same angle, she dropped the bottom of the drawer into place and meticulously replaced the linen cravats that had covered it. She had removed each one separately to be sure there were no booby traps between the folds, but had found no strategically positioned pieces of cotton or fluff.

  Again she stared down into the drawer, picturing it as it had been before her disturbance. It looked the same. She slid the drawer closed and drew from her skirt pocket a small envelope containing a fine white powder.

  Her tongue dampened her lips, and a deep, intense frown drew her eyebrows together as she sprinkled a film of the powder over the top of the armoire to reproduce the undisturbed surface she’d found.

  It was the dust that had alerted her to the hiding place, although she was willing to admit that she might not have noticed it if she hadn’t had such a scare over possibly missing something like it with the safe. But she had her own supply of the spy’s tricks of his trade, and substitution was no problem.

  She backed toward the door that connected with her boudoir and then stood very still, examining the room, mentally checking everything over. It all looked the same, and she was willing to lay odds that not even someone as experienced as Nathaniel would be able to tell there’d been an intruder.

  Gabrielle slipped through the door and back into the safety of her own apartments. Only then did she allow the grief to resurface. It welled up from deep within her, great racking gobbets of sorrow filling her throat so she could barely breathe, tears pouring heedlessly from her eyes, soaking the front of her gown, her face contorted with the raw brutality of her emotion.

  She stood quite still and silent under the violent buffeting of indescribable sorrow, and then as it ebbed she waited for the cleansing fire of anger to sweep through her, hardening her with the compelling power of vengeance.

  She would be revenged upon Nathaniel Praed and his secret service. And it would be the subtlest revenge and all the more satisfying for it. She would use and manipulate the man who had ordered her lover’s murder. And he’d never know what a dupe she’d made of him. Not unless she decided to tell him, of course. And maybe one day she would … and how she’d enjoy the telling.

  Calm again, she washed her face, bathing her eyes with cold water until the swollen lids subsided and the translucent pallor of her complexion was restored.

  Then she sat down in her favorite spot on the window seat to collect her thoughts. After her disappointment with the library safe, she’d decided that Nathaniel must have removed his vital documents and it stood to reason that he wouldn’t have left them lying casually around. Yesterday, when he’d ridden into Southampton on business, she’d conducted a thorough search of the small office where he dealt with estate business and met with his bailiff.

  It had turned up nothing, although she was the first to admit that didn’t mean there was nothing; it was always possible to conceal things from the most experienced spy. But that afternoon she’d attacked the next most obvious place and had turned up gold. It was ironic that Nathaniel’s precautions had given away the hiding place. But then, she’d profited from the lesson of the library.

  A tap on the door heralded Jake’s now-customary evening arrival. He was looking remarkably cheerful, the reason obvious in his first bubbling announcement.

  “Papa doesn’t wan
t to see me in the library today ’cause he’s still doing business with the bailiff. So we can have a really bag story.” There was otter confidence in his assertion as he clambered onto the window seat beside her and beamed up at her.

  Gabrielle smiled and encircled him with one arm. “Which story?”

  Jake tilted his head, a little frown on his brow as he considered the question. He resembled the portrait of Helen much more nearly than he did his father, but there were moments like this one when an expression, the tilt of his head, or some tiny gesture would remind Gabrielle of Nathaniel with an almost heart-stopping accuracy.

  “The one about when you and Georgie an’ Kip rode the ram with the curly horns and he chased you out of the field and you got stuck in a bramble hedge.”

  “You know it already,” Gabrielle laughed.

  “Yes, but I want to hear it again.” He stuck his thumb in his mouth and snuggled against her.

  Children were always immensely comforted by the familiar, Gabrielle reflected as she began the tale, searching for some interesting and hitherto unrevealed embellishments to enliven the narrative.

  She heard the door to Nathaniel’s bedchamber open and close. Heard his footsteps on the bare polished floor. Heard the sound of a drawer being opened, a cupboard door unlatched. Her heart began to speed but her voice didn’t falter as she continued with the story. She felt the child stiffen against her for a minute as he, too, heard the sounds of his father’s proximity, then Jake relaxed again.

  Nathaniel opened the connecting door and stood leaning against the jamb in his shirt-sleeves, one-handedly loosening his cravat as he took in the cozy scene.

  Gabrieile’s skin prickled as her eyes absorbed the long-fingered hand against the white lawn of his cravat, the lean, athletic frame, and her body shot off on one of its unilateral journeys into the world of throbbing arousal as she felt as vividly as if it were real his hand and his body on hers. Ten minutes earlier she’d been filled with lethal hatred for this man, and now she could think only of what his body did to hers.

  “Nathaniel.” Somehow, despite the swirling turmoil as her physical responses warred with her emotions, she managed to greet him with a serene smile, her arm tightening around the child as she felt the currents of unease flowing through the small body. “We’re just finishing a story. Did you have a successful afternoon?”

  “Tedious, but I achieved what I had to,” he said. “Isn’t it time you were in bed, Jake?”

  “I can’t tell the time yet,” Jake confessed in a tiny voice, his solemn, liquid brown eyes regarding his father anxiously.

  Nathaniel made no immediate response. He was struck by the comfortable intimacy of the woman and child and the softness that surrounded Gabrielle like an aura. It was feminine and loving and it seemed to flow over Jake. How had he ever thought she lacked womanly tenderness? The more he learned of her, the less it seemed he knew.

  “Hasn’t Miss Primmer tried to teach you?” he asked after a minute.

  “I’m not very good at it,” Jake confessed, wriggling uncomfortably. As always, the atmosphere in the room had changed with his father’s arrival, and he could feel something different in Gabby, almost as if she were angry about something. He hated it when people were angry. When Cook shouted at Hetty, the scullery maid, and Hetty cried, he always felt like crying himself and his tummy went into a hard knot. But even though he could feel something was wrong, Gabby was smiling. His father wasn’t, but then, Jake didn’t think his father ever smiled.

  “Well, I think it’s time you became good at it,” Nathaniel said, glancing at the Chippendale clock on the wall above the chaise longue. “It’s almost six.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jake murmured with downcast eyes. He squirmed out of Gabrielle’s hold and slid off the window seat.

  “Don’t you want to hear the end of the story?” Gabrielle asked, laying a hand on his arm.

  Jake glanced at his father and then stared down at his feet again, mumbling something inaudible.

  “Finish the story,” Nathaniel said abruptly, feeling like an ogre from a fairy tale casting gloom and despondency wherever he went. Anyone would think he took pleasure in making the child unhappy, but for some reason everything he said to the boy came out wrong. And Jake looked at him all the time as if he was expecting harshness. Had he looked at his father with the same apprehension? If so, he’d certainly had a good deal more cause than Jake.

  He shook his head with an impatient gesture. “I have to get out of my dirt before dinner, Gabrielle. I’ll see you in the library in half an hour.”

  She inclined her head in acknowledgment and lifted Jake back onto the window seat. The child’s eyes darted toward his father, and on impulse Nathaniel stepped forward and awkwardly patted his head.

  “Good night, Jake.”

  The salute so startled the boy that he stared dumbly at Nathaniel, who, without waiting for a response, turned and went into his own room, closing the door behind him.

  Now, that had been quite promising, Gabrielle thought as she resumed the story. Whatever ill she might wish Nathaniel, it belonged in the dark world of espionage and bore no relevance to his relationship with his child. If she could effect some changes there, inject a ray of warmth, then she would do it.

  Nathaniel stood frowning, stroking his chin thoughtfully behind the closed door of his own chamber. His eyes darted to the armoire. He’d checked it as soon as he’d first entered the room. The film of powder remained undisturbed. And the second safe he kept concealed beneath a loose floorboard under his bed also bore no signs of intrusion. Not that he would expect anyone to find it without a wholesale search that would involve tipping up the massive poster bed. Gabrielle certainly couldn’t move it alone.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the closed door and nodded thoughtfully. So far, it appeared that Gabrielle was what she seemed. One more thing remained before he would be completely satisfied, however. He must search her possessions. As soon as the Vanbrughs sent on the rest of her luggage, he would conduct that search and then, so long as it turned up nothing even remotely out of place, he would reconsider employing Gabrielle in the network.

  That evening Gabrieile’s particular brand of sensual challenge seemed even more pointedly mischievous than usual, and once or twice Nathaniel, even as he responded, felt a stirring of unease. There was a brittleness to her, almost a hint of desperation. He told himself he was being fanciful, that his mistress was just in one of her more intensely passionate moods, and as they soared to the heights of ecstasy during the glorious hours of the night, he forgot his earlier misgivings in the kaleidoscopic wonders of their fusion.

  Gabrielle sought to vanquish turmoil in the clean responses of passion. She told herself that the afternoon’s discovery altered nothing, since it merely confirmed what she had already known. But whoever Nathaniel Praed was … whatever he had done … nothing could diminish the power of their mutual obsession, an obsession that would facilitate her revenge.

  She awoke the next morning lying on her stomach, her body pressed into the mattress with Nathaniel’s length measured along her back.

  “Is it morning?” she murmured, stretching her arms over her head, her toes reaching to the foot of the bed in a bone-cracking stretch beneath his weight.

  “Mmmm.”

  “What are you doing?” She wriggled beneath him, tightening her thighs in playful resistance.

  “Guess.” He nipped her earlobe, inserting a knee firmly between her closed thighs.

  “Supposing I hadn’t woken up.”

  “I’d have been mortally offended.”

  Gabrielle chuckled lazily, yielding to the insistent pressure of his probing flesh.

  Winter sun filled the room half an hour later when Nathaniel reluctantly pushed aside the sheet and stood up, stretching and yawning. He smiled down at Gabrielle’s prone figure, her nose still buried in the pillow. Leaning over, he scribbled a fingernail along her spine and smoothed a flat palm over the peach roundness of
her bottom.

  “It looks like a beautiful day. If it’s not too cold and the wind and tide are right, would you like to go for a sail on the river?”

  “I should love to,” she said sincerely. “Will you teach me how to sail?”

  “If you like.” Something remarkably like a grin curved the corners of his mouth “Are you a patient pupil?”

  “That depends on the instructor, sir.” She rolled onto her back and squinted up at him with a quizzical smile. “I’d guess patience is not your long suit … so, perhaps it would be a bad idea.”

  “Oh, I might surprise you,” he said blandly. “I’m not totally predictable.”

  “Then surprise me.”

  “With pleasure, ma’am.” Bending over her, he ran a fingertip over her nipples until they rose beneath the caress, then, with a smug nod of satisfaction he left her, smiling in languid satiation.

  For the remainder of that day Gabrielle saw a different side to Nathaniel. He was a humorous, relaxed companion concerned with her welfare and her pleasure, exhibiting an extraordinary amount of patience as he taught her how to rig the sails, how to catch the wind, how to gauge the exact moment to tack across the broad river.

  They kept to the river and the tidal cuts in the marshes, not venturing into the choppy winter Solent. It was cold and exhilarating, and for these few hours the dark inner worlds ruled by suspicion, calculation, betrayal, and vengeance were held at bay.

  At noon they tied the twelve-foot dinghy to an isolated jetty and tramped across the marshy grass to a thatched inn. Nathaniel was greeted with an easy warmth by the fishermen in the taproom. There was an equality to the conversation that fascinated Gabrielle, given that Lord Praed was the lord of the manor and these his tenants. She herself was virtually ignored, and she assumed that women didn’t frequent the village tavern.

  She sat contentedly by the fire, drank porter, and ate a succulent meat pie and a large wedge of cheddar with pickled onions. Nathaniel meanwhile sat up at the bar in his shirt-sleeves, one leg propped on the rung of a stool, his hand curled around a tankard of ale as he talked tides and winds and fishing with his fellow drinkers.