by Jane Feather
“That’ll do,” Nathaniel instructed, taking her waist and moving her aside. He filled two glasses from a depleted wine bottle and handed one to her. “Drink this.”
Gabrielle sipped and regarded him with a quizzically raised eyebrow. “So what now, Sir Spymaster? You’ve another twelve hours to enjoy your prize.”
“No,” Nathaniel said. “I’m declaring a moratorium.”
“Oh? Why so?” She was puzzled and taken aback.
“Because it doesn’t seem entirely fair,” he said, reaching for a dressing gown and shrugging into it. “I won the wager under false pretenses.”
“What?” Gabrielle became suddenly conscious of her own nakedness as Nathaniel wrapped the robe around himself, tying the girdle securely. The atmosphere in the room was fractured in some way, and she felt an overwhelming sense of vulnerability.
“I’ve decided to take you into the network,” he stated calmly. “So, one could say that I cheated you out of your winnings.”
Gabrielle stood very still, trying to make sense of this. “Then you didn’t play fair,” she said finally in tones of hurt confusion.
“Fair play, my dear, is not to be expected in the world of espionage,” he pointed out in a voice like sere leaves. His eyes raked her face, looking for a conscious flash in her eyes, a hint of color in her cheeks, but there was nothing. Gabrielle de Beaucaire knew the underworld and the many dark faces of man, and she wore the velvet cloak of deceit as easily as he wore it himself.
“No, I suppose it’s not,” she said, suddenly matter-of-fact, going toward her own door. She paused, her hand on the latch as an explanation occurred to her for the strange, disturbing moments. “Was there some kind of test embodied in the last hours, Nathaniel?”
“I wanted to see whether I could trust you to play with the team,” he said casually. “Whether you could control your own vigorous responses and follow the direction of a leader.” He smiled. “It seems you can … in bed, at least. I’m willing to assume you’ll be able to do it in other situations.”
Gabrielle went into her own room. Distaste nibbled at her soul at the thought that all the while he’d been watching her, assessing her, as she lay open to him, her defenses down, utterly trusting in the loving congress that had always been inviolate, untouched by her own muddled emotions. He’d used sex to discover something about her. Surely he could have chosen some other arena.
But she’d succeeded. That was the important thing. Coldly, she concentrated on that fact. From now on she’d have access to the spymaster’s world.
Nathaniel found himself staring at the closed door. Despite the ruthless pragmatism that had lain behind the scenario he had engineered that day, he was as stirred by her as ever. She had been more exciting in the role she’d played at his direction than he could ever have believed possible. Absorbing herself into the fantasy with her own brand of erotic magic.
Gabrielle de Beaucaire was a woman unlike any other. She could meet him and match him on every level—from hasty, lustful tumbling to exquisite love games; from angry challenge to witty retort; from analytic discourse to novel opinion. And on the back of a hunter, honesty obliged him to admit that Gabrielle probably had the edge.
His eye fell on the rumpled bed, the piled cushions on the floor where their game had led them at one point, the straight-backed chair where Gabrielle had—
Helen hadn’t cared for hunting. The thought burst through his lascivious reverie. She’d been like Jake, timid on horseback. She’d not been playful either. A quietly smiling, grave woman of sweet disposition, she’d lent herself to him willingly, but he remembered now how once or twice he’d had the nagging suspicion that she’d found the sweaty antics of entwined naked bodies faintly ridiculous at best, distasteful at worst. He hadn’t dwelt upon the suspicion, of course … had dismissed it as silly. Helen was too sweet and compliant to make such feelings overt, and what man wanted to see himself as ridiculous in the eyes of an adoring wife?
Gabrielle mocked him, challenged him, laughed at him, but nothing they did together, however outrageous, undignified, and sometimes downright silly, made him feel ridiculous. He did things with Gabrielle that he couldn’t have imagined doing with Helen. Could never reveal to anyone else without being covered with embarrassment.
But they were alike, he and Gabrielle. They played in the same dark world … but on opposite sides. They understood risks and took them boldly. It was hardly surprising that they should be so well matched … in challenge as well as in treachery.
13
Several days later, a day filled with the intimations of spring, when crocuses and daffodils pushed through the lawn under the ancient oak trees and the weak sun brought a sparkle to the wide gray river, Gabrielle came into the house with a nosegay of snowdrops she’d picked in the orchard. She was smiling unconsciously as she inhaled their delicate fragrance.
Jake suddenly raced past her. His head was down and he bumped against her as he ran for the open front door behind her. He didn’t stop to greet her, or even apologize for knocking into her, but flew down the steps of the house.
“Jake!” Gabrielle dropped the snowdrops on the console table and ran to the door, calling the child. But Jake’s pace didn’t decrease as he headed down the driveway. He was hatless and coatless, a condition not ordinarily permitted by his oversolicitous nurse or the zealous Miss Primmer.
“Jake!” Nathaniel came out of the library, scowling ferociously. “Where the devil has he gone? He has absolutely no manners! What has that ineffectual governess been teaching him?”
“He ran outside,” Gabrielle said, turning back to the hall. “He seemed distraught. What have you said to him?”
The accusatory note in her voice was clear for both of them to hear, and Nathaniel’s scowl deepened. A man appeared in the doorway behind him, a thin man with a lorgnette and lank, greasy hair, wearing dusty topboots and a morning coat of olive drab that had clearly seen better days.
“He’ll become accustomed to the idea, Lord Praed,” the man said with an unctuous smile.
Gabrielle took an instant and limitless dislike to the stranger. She stared at him with undisguised hauteur and raised an inquiring eyebrow at Nathaniel.
Nathaniel looked slightly and most unusually discomfited. “I beg your pardon, countess,” he said stiffly. “Mr. Jeffrys is to be Jake’s tutor. He comes most highly recommended.”
“How comforting,” Gabrielle said. “When did you arrive, Mr. Jeffrys?”
“This morning, my lady.” The tutor-to-be inclined his angular frame from the waist in an inelegant and unpracticed bow. “Lord Praed’s request for a recommendation for a tutor reached Harrow on Monday, and I came immediately. I am always the master’s first choice when such requests are made. I pride myself on being able to prepare the sons of the nobility for entrance into our hallowed portals.” His obsequious smile revealed yellow teeth.
Like moidering tombstones, Gabrielle thought. “How gratifying for you, Mr, Jeffrys,” she said. “I trust you’re well qualified to prepare mere babes for the rigors of such an establishment. They must perforce learn to withstand the severity and privations of such a life.”
Mr. Jeffrys looked at her uneasily. What she’d said was nothing but the truth, of course. It was what he did best. But something about her tone and manner confused him. He tried another smile. “I pride myself on my successes, my lady … some of the noblest families in the land …” The smile hung in the air, as if it couldn’t find a home.
“If you’ll excuse us, countess. We have some further business to discuss,” Nathaniel said frigidly. He turned back to the library. “Jeffrys …”
“Oh, yes, my lord … the details … of course, my lord.”
And where the hell did Primmy fit into all this? Gabrielle thought furiously. Nathaniel had said nothing about the progress of his plans for a tutor, not to Gabrielle and she presumed not to Primmy, who treated her as a confidante and would most certainly have told her. Indeed, the gove
rness had been cherishing hopes that his lordship had changed his mind, since he’d never mentioned the matter again. And now this. Jake presented to his new mentor without preparation, and Miss Primmer out on her ear.
“Just one minute, my lord.” She put out an imperative hand. “I’d like a private word. I’m sure Mr. Jeffrys will excuse us.” She turned toward the dining room without waiting for a response from Nathaniel, who hesitated for a second before waving the tutor curtly back to the library and following her.
He slammed the door behind him. “Well?”
Gabrielle was trembling with rage. What did the man have for empathy and insight? Cloth, presumably. As dark and impenetrable a material as could be found.
“Forgive me if I’m mistaken,” she said in tones of icy incredulity, “but did you just spring that—that … odious creepy creature on Jake? Of course you didn’t! Of course you explained what was going to happen a long time ago, didn’t you? It’s just that he hasn’t mentioned it to me. But children do have short memories and—”
“Hold your tongue!” Nathaniel ordered with low-voiced ferocity, a dull flush spreading to his forehead. “This is no concern of yours, as I’ve told you a dozen times. Jake is my son, and how I handle him is my business.”
“So you just summon him one morning, inform him that that odious man is going to rule his life from now until he’s sent away to school, and that Primmy is going. Oh, when is she to leave, by the way? Is she packing her bags now?”
“Don’t talk to me in this fashion—”
“I’ll talk to you any way I like, Lord Praed,” she interrupted, her pale complexion now whiter than milk, her eyes dark pools of molten lava, the skin around her mouth blue-tinged with fury. “Of all the crass—”
“Stop this at once!” Beside himself, he seized her upper arms and in unthinking reaction Gabrielle swung her flat palm against his cheek. The ugly crack hung for the barest instant in the air before it was repeated and Gabrielle spun away from him, her hand pressed to her own flaming cheek.
There was a terrible silence. She gazed sightlessly out the window, tears as much of shock as pain filming her eyes.
Nathaniel drew a deep shuddering breath. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” she said, her voice shaking. “How ugly … I don’t know how it happened.”
“I think we have to learn to be very careful,” Nathaniel said wearily.
“Yes,” Gabrielle agreed. She still couldn’t turn to look at him, and he made no move toward her.
The silence elongated, grew leaden, and then Nathaniel turned and left the dining room, closing the door quietly behind him.
The raw violence of the encounter left Gabrielle feeling drained and sick. She sat down at the table, resting her still-stinging cheek on her palm, and waited until the shock had dissipated somewhat and she could think clearly.
Nathaniel was wrong-headed in his dealings with Jake. But that didn’t give her the right to speak to him as she had. She could have said the same things reasonably, without hurling insults and sarcasm at him. A few days ago she’d thought she’d been making some headway, but matters between father and son seemed to have reverted to the old bad ways, and somehow she’d lost the patience for subtle teaching by example.
Perhaps it wasn’t the patience she’d lost but Nathaniel’s attention. Since he’d agreed to employ her in the network, his attitude had changed toward her. They spent hours in his office constructing a code she would use to pass on her intelligence, and she had to pretend the incompetence of a tyro while her mind leaped three steps ahead of his painstaking tutorial. They studied maps of Europe and discussed the kind of intelligence that the English spymaster would find invaluable, and she offered suggestions as to how she could acquire it.
They made love every night with the same wild passion and slept until morning in each other’s arms, but a different dimension had entered their relationship. The natural equality had vanished. Nathaniel was instructor, director, employer. He wasn’t cold in these roles, but he was businesslike and distant and Gabrielle followed his lead because it was what she was there to do.
But all the rational thought in the world didn’t diminish the sense of loss over the days when they’d sparred and loved as if nothing else could ever concern them.
And how on earth were they to recover from that vile encounter?
A cloud of depression settled over her as she stood up and left the dining room to go in search of Jake.
She ran the child to earth behind the boathouse. He was huddled on the narrow jetty, shoulders hunched, chin pressed into his chest.
Gabrielle dropped a coat around his shoulders and sat down beside him, drawing him into the curve of her arm. He snuffled and swallowed a sob.
“I want Primmy. I don’t want her to go away.”
Gabrielle let him cry, offering soothing murmurs and the warm comfort of her body until he’d exhausted his tears. Then she tried to explain why his father had decided this was best for him. It was hard to be convincing when she was so far from convinced herself. But Nathaniel was such a distant authoritarian figure in the child’s life that she felt she could at least impress upon Jake that his father had only his best interests at heart. And she did believe that. Nathaniel simply didn’t know what those best interests were.
Jake was not to be persuaded, and he trailed dolefully after her as they returned to the house.
She accompanied him to the nursery, where a resolutely dry-eyed Miss Primmer told her she’d been given two weeks notice by his lordship and a most generous settlement. His lordship was all kindness, all consideration. But the governess hugged her wan charge convulsively as she made these vigorous protestations, and Jake’s tears began to flow again.
There seemed nothing useful she could do, nothing comforting to be said at this point, and Gabrielle left them together.
Mr. Jeffrys passed her on the stairs. He was fussily directing the footman to be careful with his trunk of books and globes. He gave Gabrielle yet another ingratiating smile that she ignored, even as she wondered what interpretation he’d put on her presence. Nathaniel hadn’t introduced her, although he’d referred to her as “countess.” Presumably, he expected the same discreet acceptance from the tutor that he did from the rest of his staff.
Mrs. Bailey came out of the drawing room, feather duster in hand, as Gabrielle reached the hall. She bore the air of one attending at a deathbed.
“Did you wish me to put the snowdrops in your boudoir, ma’am?” The housekeeper gestured to the bunch of delicate flowers that Gabrielle had abandoned on the console table in the earlier flurry.
“Oh, yes, thank you.”
“Miss Primmer will be sadly missed,” the housekeeper observed, picking up the flowers. “And I don’t know what to make of that tutor. All smarm and smiles, he is, but you mark my words, once he gets his feet under the table, he’ll be giving orders left, right, and center. I know the type.”
It was an extraordinary speech from the discreet Mrs. Bailey. Gabrielle was hard pressed to know how to respond. She wanted to agree, but couldn’t without seeming to criticize Nathaniel to his staff. She offered a vague smile and satisfied herself with agreeing that Miss Primmer would indeed be missed, then she made her escape into the garden in search of privacy and tranquil surroundings.
There was a stone sundial and bench in the middle of the shrubbery, and she made her way there, knowing she would be invisible from the house.
She leaned back against the seat and raised her face to the pale sun, closing her eyes, allowing the feeble warmth to caress her eyelids. A fresh breeze carried the scents of the river and marshes and a chaffinch chirped busily from a bay tree.
She was so deeply immersed in her meditation that she didn’t hear the footsteps on the gravel path behind her. When the hand fell on her head, she jumped with a startled cry.
“Penny for them,” Nathaniel said quietly, keeping his hand where it was.
Gabrielle shrugged. “I wa
s just musing.”
His hand slipped to clasp the back of her neck. “May I share the muse?”
She arched her neck against the warm, firm pressure of his hand. “How did that happen, Nathaniel? Civilized people don’t get into those kinds of fights.”
“No, only excessively passionate people who both know they deserve to be flogged for such disgraceful lack of control,” he agreed with a wry, self-mocking smile. Still holding her neck, he moved around the bench and sat down beside her.
“How about a pact of mutual forgiveness?” His fingers tightened around the slim column of her neck.
“Done,” she said.
They sat in silence for a while. It was a companionable silence. Gabrielle was acutely conscious of his hand on her neck, of the moving blood beneath his skin, of his even breathing, of the warm proximity of his body. She realized suddenly that she’d become accustomed to such moments, and they’d been absent in the last days. Only now did she realize how much she’d missed these periods of silent and effortless communion in the turbulent seas of passion.
“I want you to go to Paris.” Nathaniel’s startling announcement broke the silence.
“When?” She turned on the bench to look at him.
“In three days time.” He let his hands fall from her and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “I need a courier to take a vital message to my agents in Paris. I told you I was having problems with the network in Toulouse?”
“Yes?” Her mind was in a ferment. It was what she’d been working toward, but she hadn’t expected him to send her into the field so soon—or so abruptly.
“I’ll give you your instructions just before you leave. Your papers are in order, I assume?”
“Yes, I have a laissez passer signed by Fouché, no less.”
“Good.” He stood up. “There’ll be a fishing boat sailing from Lymington to Cherbourg in three days. You’ll sail on her and be put ashore in a small village just along the coast. From there you’ll be able to make your own arrangements.”
