by Diana Quincy
“The prodigal is returned.” Lucian Verney’s voice cut into his musings as he settled into a wooden chair opposite Will at the small, round café table.
“Lucian.” He nodded in greeting. “How goes your dalliance with Madame Laurent?”
Lucian frowned his displeasure. “The party to whom you refer is a lady. I’ll thank you to remember it.”
Clearly the flirtation still flourished, despite the affair with Duret. Elle certainly was a busy woman these days. “So that’s the way of it.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do realize she could be working for Duret. Has she prompted you to reveal any Crown secrets yet?”
“No, she most certainly has not.” Heat rose in Lucian’s voice. “I have not overstepped with the lady. If that is what you are implying.”
“Calm yourself.” Will tried to ignore the intense relief cascading through him at the confirmation Lucian hadn’t bedded Elle. “I am merely suggesting that you should watch yourself where Madame Laurent is concerned.”
Lucian gave him a searching look. “Just how well acquainted were you with Madame Laurent back in England?”
Not a line of questioning he wished to pursue. “Well enough to know the lady cannot be trusted.”
“And why is that?”
“As a gentleman, I can say no more.”
Lucian gave him an odd look, but any forthcoming reply was interrupted by the server, who came over to take his coffee order. Once they were alone again, Lucian asked, “I trust your journey was successful.”
Will welcomed the change of subject. “Not as much as I had hoped.”
Lucian jutted his chin toward Will’s hands. “What is that?”
He flipped the paper over, revealing a calling card that was blank, except for the etching of a bird where the name should be. “Sparrow’s calling card.”
Lucian’s face lit up. “You’ve had word from him.”
“Unfortunately not. I found this among his things in Jersey, but otherwise, there’s no sign of him.”
Taking the card, Lucian examined it. “How do you know it’s his? There’s no name on it.”
“This card often accompanies Sparrow’s messages to verify their authenticity.” They quieted as the server appeared with Lucian’s coffee and waited until the man was out of earshot to continue their conversation.
“And you found no hint of the great discovery he made just before he vanished?” Lucian asked.
“None.”
“Perhaps your little bird has flown the coop.” He sipped his coffee. “His grandmother was a frog, after all.”
“Naturally, I’ve considered the possibility.” Ham Sparrow’s Gallic connections had no doubt played a role in his intelligence successes; the man spoke and looked like a native, and easily blended in among the French masses. But Will had worked closely with Sparrow on a number of missions. He doubted his friend would willingly cross over to the French side.
“But you don’t think he’s turned.”
Will shrugged. “It’s possible he’s gone in deep somewhere and will contact us when he can. In that event, all we can do is wait.”
Their conversation moved on to other things, including Lucian’s observations of Paris and of the notable French officials he’d met since arriving in the capital.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Lucian said after they’d risen to depart and were weaving their way through the crowded tables. Once outside, he pulled a sealed missive from his pocket. “This came for you at the embassy.”
“For me?” Surprised, Will took it and examined the unfamiliar red seal of an elaborate letter L. He opened it, and his heart kicked when he read the words.
“Is it bad news?” Lucian eyed him curiously. “Your color is a bit high.”
Will suppressed another curse. He’d become so adept at controlling his emotions that his fair skin rarely betrayed him anymore. “It’s nothing.” He scanned the lavish curves and loops of Elle’s handwriting. “An old acquaintance who resides in Paris has asked me to call.”
“Do you intend to go?”
“Yes.” Will pocketed the missive. “I always enjoy becoming reacquainted with old friends.”
—
He couldn’t help wondering what Elle was after when he answered her summons the following morning.
It came as no surprise that as the widow of a vicomte, Elle lived in a house located in one of the city’s finest neighborhoods. The symmetrical structure with baroque ornamentation wasn’t overly opulent, which might explain how Laurent had somehow managed to hold on to the property despite the revolution.
The stern-faced butler who opened the door directed him to the parlor while he went to inform his mistress of her guest’s arrival. As he waited, taut with an anticipation he didn’t want to feel, Will examined his surroundings.
Large arched windows and high ceilings allowed for an airy, sunlit room. Aside from the elaborate molding on the ceiling and framing the windows and fireplace, the room was simple, furnished comfortably with a bright patterned carpet and stuffed chairs and sofas. Books and papers were piled on tables while sketches and paintings graced almost every surface of the walls. The room was vibrant and inviting, much like its mistress. Everything about this place spoke of her.
“Excuse me, monsieur.” He turned to the young maid who appeared on the threshold. “If you will follow me, s’il vous plaît.” He followed her up the stairs and down a corridor, assuming Elle meant to receive him in her sitting room.
“This way, monsieur.” The servant stopped before a closed door and pushed it open, gesturing for him to enter. “Madame is expecting you.”
Will stepped inside and the powdery scent of violets folded around him. This was no sitting room. Elle sat at a dressing table with her back to him, clad in a flowing white dressing gown with her loose golden-honey hair cascading down her back in silken waves, bringing to mind a lioness in her lair.
A myriad of bottles, perfumes, and creams littered the surface before her. Vibrant scarves and a long strand of pearls were draped over the corner of the mirror. A pile of silky clothes were strewn over the back of a chair by the window, and a decorative dressing screen graced the opposite wall of Elle’s dressing chamber.
She pivoted to greet him, knocking the breath from his lungs. Beneath her open dressing gown she wore only a diaphanous chemise and stays, baring her long porcelain neck and décolletage, and the soft upper swells of her high breasts. She smiled. “Will, it is good of you to come.”
He indulged himself for a moment, allowing his gaze to run over the refined structure of her face before bowing in greeting. “Viscountess.”
Her brows lifted with amusement. “I am simply Madame Laurent now that all titles have been abolished in France.”
“I am sorry for it.”
“Do not be.” A corner of her mouth kicked up. “I’ve never put much store in titles, as you are well aware.”
He understood nothing of the sort. She’d married a wealthy viscount after all, a man she’d been acquainted with for less than a month. Will might have known her as a girl, but it was increasingly clear that the woman she’d become was a complete mystery to him.
“I wish to apologize for my behavior at Frascati’s,” she continued.
“Why?” His words were almost harsh. “You spoke the truth.”
“I was wrong to speak of the past at all. Anything that transpired between us is just that, the past, and is best forgotten.”
He felt an upwelling of anger at the realization that she preferred to forget their night together, yet again. She turned back to the mirror and picked up a brush, pulling it through her hair in long, languorous strokes. “How was your visit to the country?”
“Uneventful.” He was riveted by the movement of the brush through the satiny strands. “I authenticated a coin for a collector.”
“Mmm.” She eyed him in the mirror. “Where did you go exactly?”
“Not too far fro
m Paris, near Fontainebleau.”
“I hear it is beautiful there. Was it to your liking?”
His impatience bubbled to the surface. “Did you invite me here to discuss the merits of the French countryside?”
“I invited you as a peace offering, to put the past behind us.” She tilted her head. “Have you had an opportunity to see much of Paris? Given your numismatic interests, you might appreciate the passages couverts. I’ve seen a number of coin collecting shops there. The covered shopping arcades are also quite pleasant to visit; they’re kept clean and the temperature is moderate. We have nothing like them in England.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of visiting one of your arcades.” Taking in her state of dishabille, he became powerfully aware of the blood pumping hard through his body. “I had presumed the ceremony of the toilette was abolished along with the French monarchy.”
“It would be a shame if that were so.” Putting her brush down, she reached for her rouge pot and swiped a subtle slash of color across each pale, regal cheekbone. “Dressing to greet the public can be so tiresome. Why not enjoy the entertainment of friends while completing one’s toilette for the day?”
They were interrupted by the young servant girl who had shown him to Elle’s dressing chamber. She carried a tray laden with tea and breakfast foods, which she placed on a brass inlaid table positioned in front of a silk dove gray lit du jour.
“I do hope you haven’t eaten.” Elle rose, lithe and graceful, her white robe fluttering behind her as she moved to the backless settee. She picked up an open book that had been set facedown on the settee, and closed it with a snap before placing the tome on a side table. Lowering herself onto the settee, she lounged against its low-arched scrolled arm as regally as the Empress Josephine might and, in a ballerina-like motion, gestured for him to take the tufted velvet chair opposite her.
He obliged, painfully aware of her presence, of her soft feminine form reclining opposite him in a state of undress. His attention shifted to the title of the book she’d put aside. His heart skipped a beat. “You are reading about Cleopatra?” He thought of the coin he’d given her, the one bearing the Egyptian queen’s likeness. Perhaps she hadn’t completely forgotten her old life after all.
She glanced at the book. “Yes, she was a remarkable woman. Cleopatra controlled virtually the entire eastern Mediterranean coast; she ruled the last great kingdom of any Egyptian leader.”
He thought of her liaison with Duret. “You are drawn to powerful leaders.”
“I admire a woman who controls her own destiny.” She reached for a strawberry, the movement offering a tantalizing glimpse of her pale breasts. “And I suppose I have a romantic nature. I cannot help but be moved by the great love she shared with Marc Antony.”
It rubbed his nerves raw to hear her speak of great love affairs. “Antony betrayed Cleopatra by taking up with another woman.”
“True. Even the most intelligent woman can be brought low by loving a man who doesn’t return her regard.”
“Then why admire their liaison?”
“In the end, he loved her unreservedly, and she him. I don’t imagine a love like theirs exists today.”
Resentment smoldered behind his inscrutably polite mask. Her response told him all he needed to know about how deeply she’d ever cared about him. Yet, he couldn’t resist asking, “Do you still have the Cleopatra coin I gave you?”
The sudden coloring of her cheeks beneath the rouge told him she remembered precisely what had occurred after he’d presented the gift to her. A slow burn spread through his blood at the memory of her soft limbs intertwined with his, of the urgent, heated strokes and tender murmurs. Of an exquisite intimacy he hadn’t experienced since.
“The coin? Oh yes.” She waved a careless hand. “Undoubtedly, it is around here somewhere. I haven’t thought to look for the old thing in ages.”
His entire body flushed at her cavalier attitude. For years, he’d tormented himself over a flighty woman who couldn’t care less about him. Their lovemaking had left him certain in the knowledge there could be no other woman for him, while she barely seemed to recall it at all.
“Since you’ve invited me here to view the ceremony of the toilette,” he said in a frosty tone, “should I presume that I am to play the role of cicisbeo?”
One of her arched brows inched up. A cicisbeo could either be one’s lover, or simply an amusing male companion. “Why? Do you have any news or gossip of interest to impart?”
“The only news of interest I’ve learned since arriving in France is that you still walk among the living.”
She reached for another strawberry and bit into the fruit. “Do you still favor strawberries?”
“I indulge on occasion.”
She licked some of its red juice from her plump lower lip. “Then you must treat yourself.” Finishing the strawberry, she licked its juice from her tapered fingers. “They are perfect. Plump, sweet, and juicy. I had them brought in especially for you.”
His temper simmered along with lambent desire, at the way she lounged opposite him, radiating heat and sensuality as if their past didn’t exist. This temptress might look like Elle—from the radiant sparkle in her eyes to the determined jut of her delicate chin—but this practiced, seductive performance would be completely alien to the girl he used to know. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course.” She looked at him expectantly. “Anything.”
“Did you find my proposal of marriage so objectionable”—his words were hard—“that you prefer to keep company with a married man who will soon be at war with England?”
She bit into the strawberry and chewed thoughtfully, but he noted—as he was trained to do—the subtle tightening of her expression and the almost imperceptible stiffening of her lissome limbs. She was not as at ease as she would like him to believe. “There is peace between France and England.”
“At the moment. But the Treaty of Amiens will not last the year. You shall soon find yourself consorting with the enemy.”
She reached for a piece of toast and began to butter it. “It is possible I will return home to England before war breaks out.”
“You’ve had five years to make that journey.”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
Her expression clouded. “I was detained.”
The image of Duret’s proprietary hand at the small of her back flashed in his mind. “So you’ve said.”
“What I mean to say is that I was held against my will.”
He stilled. “By whom? Duret?”
“No.” She swallowed a bite of her toast. “I was in a detention camp for Britons.”
He inhaled in surprise. British intelligence had long been aware of the camps where England’s citizens had been detained before the current peace was negotiated. “Were you mistreated?”
“Only in that I was cut off from my family at a time when I sorely needed them.” He registered the effort it took for her to keep her voice even. “No communications with the outside world were allowed.”
“Where were you detained?”
“It could have been worse, I suppose. I was taken to a fortress along with other wealthy English détenus, as they called us. Some rented an entire house for their families, but I was alone, so I rented a room and lived with a family.” She gave an unamused laugh. “I was obligated to pay for my captors to keep me.”
“I trust they at least treated you well.”
“They treated me with suspicion.” Her voice took on a brittle edge. “I was one of the enemy.”
“What were the conditions of your detention?”
“We were allowed to walk freely within the town, but French eyes were always upon us, watching, waiting to see if we would attempt to escape beyond the town limits.”
“How long were you there?”
“Up until a few months ago.”
“As long as that?” He didn’t bother to hide his surpris
e, revealing his first honest emotion of this encounter. “You were held against your will for five years?” He couldn’t imagine a free spirit like Elle being hemmed for all that time, treated like cattle, allowed out to graze for a few hours before being penned in again.
“I would repeatedly walk from one end of the village to the other and dream of the day I could finally go home.”
He wondered whether she considered Paris home now. “And when they finally let you go?”
“I was released after England and France signed the peace.” She bit into her toast, dashing away a crumb on her strawberry-stained lip with a tapered finger topped by a clean, rounded nail. “But of course no one expected the fragile Treaty of Amiens to last, so I rushed home to Paris, intent on packing my things, closing the house, and returning to my family.” Sadness glinted in her eyes. “At least to the family I had left. Laurent, of course, is forever lost to me.”
His gut stabbed at the thought of her mourning her husband’s loss, even after all these years. The emotion was coupled with his growing contempt for her, this mother in name only, who never even mentioned the daughter she’d abandoned. He reached for a strawberry. “And yet, here you still remain.”
“Yes, as I said, I have personal business that keeps me here at the moment.”
He bit into the strawberry, its sweet juices at odds with the bitter taste in his mouth at the thought she’d stayed in Paris to be with her general.
There was a tap on the door, and Elle rose when her maid—whom he recognized from the park—entered the chamber carrying a crimson dress. They briefly discussed the dress in French before Elle turned—facing Will—and allowed the maid to remove her dressing gown.
He did not even pretend to avert his eyes. Taking in the long pale arms and feminine curve of her slender waist, he ached with the wanting of her. He might hold her in distaste, but the physical attraction between them still burned brighter than ever.
