by Diana Quincy
Her heart beat frantically, every nerve ending taut with the wanting of him. She hadn’t been touched by a man since her husband died. And relations with Laurent had lacked the urgent, animalistic passion Will provoked in her.
“What is it?” The warm exhale of his breath fluttered across the sensitive skin on her throat as he spoke.
“Hmmm?” She held him tight against her, relishing his physical proximity and the feel of his warm, hard body against hers. “What is what?”
“What is it that Duret wants so badly that he’d force you to whore yourself out to me for it?”
The heated desire cascaded out of her, leaving a barren chill in its place. She blinked away tears, forcing herself to breathe through the suffocating disappointment. When Will looked at her now, all he saw was Duret’s whore.
He gently disengaged from her and reached inside his pocket to withdraw his spectacles. Fitting the curved ends carefully around each ear, he spoke to her in quiet tones. “Your French general must have a powerful hold on you to get you to consent to such a disagreeable task.”
“Disagreeable?” She jerked her dress up to cover her breasts and hugged her arms to her chest. He’d found their intimacy distasteful?
“Duret offered you to me like a boy sharing a treasured sweetmeat.”
She heard contempt in his voice, but, strangely, it seemed directed more at himself than at her. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the ragged tree trunk, thinking of the last time they’d been intimate, yearning for home, for her child, for her father and brother, and for the way things might have been between her and Will.
“Do you remember my mare?” she asked, longing to be far away from this place. “The one I used to ride whenever I could steal you away from Cosmo and your books?”
His dark copper brows drew together. “Your horse?” He nodded. “Fancy.”
How she’d loved her animal. She’d always made sure to bring an apple treat every time she visited the stables. The memory deepened her pining for home. One day soon, she would take Susanna to Langtry and set her atop her mount. Fancy would be older now, gentle enough for a little girl.
“Do you ever see her there in the stable?” Suddenly, she couldn’t bear the thought of her beloved mount being one more thing that was forever lost to her. “Has my father kept her?”
“Yes,” he said. “And any time I visit, I take her an apple.”
A throat cleared. “Madame,” called the polite voice of her butler before he came into view. “I’m afraid we have a situation in the kitchen.”
“Very well,” she said, her voice weary. Her cook was excellent, but also extraordinarily temperamental. Elle often found herself in the kitchens soothing the woman’s ego. She looked at Will. “Can you find your own way back inside alone?”
His uncompromising features shone almost harshly in the moonlight. “I always find my own way.”
She held his gaze. “This is not what you think.”
He swallowed hard—she watched the cords slide in his throat—but he did not answer. After a moment, she turned away and hurried back to the house, feeling his gaze on her until she was out of his sight.
—
Later that evening, while Elle was busily engaged with her guests, Will slipped away from the crowd and made his way to her dressing chamber. He went immediately to the walnut escritoire in the corner of the room and searched through each drawer in a soundless, thorough manner.
He slid his hand to the back of a drawer and hit something cool and metallic. Pulling out the syringe, he examined it. His throat clogged. Whores and prostitutes used syringes to cleanse their womb of a man’s seed. Elle’s reasons for using the device struck him with perfect clarity. She didn’t care to risk becoming pregnant with Duret’s child. Not surprising in the least considering she’d already demonstrated her clear lack of interest in motherhood.
He replaced the instrument just where he’d found it and forced himself to move on. It wasn’t difficult to locate the false bottom in the last drawer. Beneath it, he found two letters tied with a black velvet ribbon. The writing was unfamiliar, but the bold, sharp lines suggested a masculine hand. Unfolding the first missive, he saw it was addressed to My Dearest Darling Elinor; he skimmed down to the signature—Your Devoted Rodolphe.
Realization stabbed at his ribs. He held private communications between Elle and her husband—the man she had chosen over him. He pushed aside any emotion and regained the cold calm required of an agent. The other letter was also from her Frenchman and dated around the time the two had married. He scanned it, his eye catching on the last sentence—If you are indeed certain that this is the course you wish to take, my dearest darling, then I shall devote my entire being to loving and cherishing you and yours as my very own blood. He found nothing useful in the letters beyond general comments about shared friends and Laurent’s descriptions of Paris and how certain he was that Elle would come to love the city.
Replacing the letters in their hiding spot, his gaze hitched on a turned-down calling card. He flipped it over and shock spun through him, sucking the air from his lungs. He stared, disbelieving, at the simple engraved image of a bird.
A sparrow.
What the devil was Elle doing with Ham Sparrow’s calling card? The upper right-hand corner of the card was turned down, a clear message in calling-card etiquette that indicated a personal visit. The space on the card where any message would be remained blank. Dread trickled down his spine. Elle knew Sparrow. Had possibly met with him. And he was now missing.
Replacing each item precisely as he’d found it, Will returned to the party, contemplating the very real possibility that Elinor Dunsmore, daughter of the Marquess of Aldridge, one of England’s most respected and widely admired statesmen, had not only turned her back on her child and her family, but had also abandoned her country to work with the French.
Long ago, as an infatuated boy, and even recently, as a simple man, he’d never been a match for Elle’s vital charm and natural magnetism. Few men were. But deceit and treachery were his stock and trade. They were what the spy game was all about.
Elle might not know it yet, but he’d finally become her match.
—
So naturally, when she invited him to join her for the midday meal a few days later, he did not refuse.
“Where are we going?” he asked as he helped her alight from her coach.
She directed him off the busy street and into a nearby entrance. “To the finest restaurant in all of Paris.”
“Restaurant?” He gazed up at the high ceilings with ornate molding and around the crowded room. Men and ladies conversed animatedly at intimate, cloth-covered tables, which were nothing like the large, common tables found at inns and taverns back home. No gently bred London lady would be seen dining out in public as these Parisians were. “Is it respectable?”
“Perfectly.” She slid him a half-teasing look. “Although, I thought you didn’t have a care for what people think.” They were interrupted by a well-dressed gentleman who greeted Elle by name before showing them to a table at the center of the crowded room.
Once they were seated and alone, he asked, “Do you often frequent this establishment?”
“On occasion.”
He studied her as she picked up a placard on the table and reviewed it while absently curling one loose tendril of hair around her long, slender finger. Today she wore another one of her white sheer concoctions, a dress that alluded to indecency and debauchery. The deep square neck and short capped sleeves were trimmed in ornate silver roping that played up the color of her eyes. The gown was cinched just under her breasts by a belt of the same silver design. She’d never looked more breathtaking.
“What would you like?” she asked. “Are you well? You seem…distracted.”
“I am a bit, I suppose. A friend I was supposed to see when I came to Paris has mysteriously vanished.”
“Vanished?” Her smoky gray eyes widened. “When? Where?”<
br />
“His name is Hamilton Sparrow.” He watched her intently. “Perhaps you had occasion to meet him at one of your routs?”
She seemed to turn the name over in her mind, but her expression remained blank. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him.”
A fist closed hard around his heart, confirming his darkest suspicions. “The name is not familiar to you at all?”
“Hamilton Sparrow?” She shook her head. “No, not at all.”
Fighting to mask any outward sign of emotion, he pretended to survey the tidy, polished space with its elaborate décor, fine china, and well-dressed patrons. “What is the meal today?”
“It is for you to choose,” she said, handing over the placard she’d been perusing. “You are not obliged to eat whatever the innkeeper’s wife has in her pot.”
He realized it was a menu of sorts, offering a selection of dishes including poultry, meats, hams, and a variety of sauces. The waiter returned to take their order. He decided on a poultry dish with some sauce he’d never heard of, and Elle said she’d have the same.
The waiter returned with champagne. Will stole a glance at Elle. Did she remember that last time they’d taken champagne together? He would certainly never forget it.
“Very nice,” he remarked, sipping from his flute, savoring the smooth and lively taste on his tongue.
“Indeed.” She toasted him with her glass. “And we have the revolution to thank for it.”
“How so?”
“Once the revolution was over, the unemployed chefs from all of the great aristocratic houses found themselves without a situation. So they put their skills to use by opening these establishments.”
“Very enterprising. It’s ironic the French fought so hard to rid themselves of the aristocracy only to try to emulate them.”
“But there is a difference,” she said. “Look about you; now everyone can enjoy the privilege of dining like the aristocracy, instead of a select few.”
He studied her for a moment. “Do not tell me that you, the daughter of a marquess, believe the peerage has outlived its usefulness.”
“Laurent most certainly did.”
“An unusual point of view from a member of the nobility.” Jealousy punctured his ribs at the mention of her late husband. “Have you adopted his revolutionary ideals?”
They were interrupted by the arrival of the food, which proved to be delicious, especially when washed down with the champagne.
“What of your work at the Home Office?” she asked as they ate. “Do you enjoy it?”
“It isn’t particularly interesting.” He kept his answer deliberately vague. “My work involves a great deal of correspondence and filing.”
She sipped her champagne, her eyes alight with interest. “Surely there must be one or two intriguing aspects of the job to engage someone like you.”
Her interest in his work seemed to go beyond the polite. The hair on his arms rose. She denied knowing Sparrow, yet she clearly had met with the man at least once. And then there was Duret, who’d been mad with jealousy at their first meeting, but the other evening had eagerly handed Elle into his care, practically inviting him to make free with her.
He couldn’t avoid the obvious conclusion: Elle worked for Duret, who’d tasked her with extracting information from a Home Office clerk who might possess English intelligence.
“You have such a keen mind,” she was saying, “I can’t imagine you being content to file papers and write correspondence.”
“Those of us who must engage in enterprise do so to put food in our bellies,” he said stiffly. “The question of whether or not we enjoy the exertion is irrelevant when our very survival depends upon the coin we earn.”
“Surely your family would help you if you found yourself in dire straits.”
“My brother, Giles, most certainly would, but I prefer to make my own way.”
“Your brother?” Her brows drew together. “What of your father? Wouldn’t he assist you?”
“Giles is now the earl.”
“Oh!” Her eyes widened. “When did your father—?”
“Last year. He passed following a brief illness.”
“I am sorry to hear of it. His loss must have been difficult for you.”
“Ours was not the easiest of relationships. My father never quite knew what to do with a bastard son. He was outraged when I took a position at the Home Office.”
She sipped her champagne. “Nobility is not meant to sully its hands with work.”
“I am nobility’s bastard. The rules are different for people like me.”
She put her glass down. “You are as much a gentleman as your brother, title or not.”
His insides twisted at her earnest expression, when he knew damn well she was dissembling. His bastardy had certainly been of consequence when it came time for her to take a husband. He’d been good enough for a quick romp to satisfy her sexual curiosity, but he was obviously beneath her touch when it came to marriage.
“But titles do matter,” he said lightly. “You married a vicomte, after all. Actions do speak louder than words.”
Her expressive eyes widened in surprise, and then he watched as she tried to wrangle her growing outrage into submission. Hiding her feelings had never been Elle’s forte. “You are the last person on this earth who should pass judgment on me, especially after your appalling behavior.”
Her words stung, but he forced an even tone. “I offered you marriage and you chose your Frenchman instead.”
She spoke in a low, furious undertone. “Is that what you tell yourself so that you might sleep better at night?”
He threw his hands up in exasperation. “I was willing to make you my wife.” He’d been far more than willing; he’d desperately wanted to wed her. “What more did you want of me?”
She shook her head, her plush lips twisted with disgust. “Not a thing. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your numismatic pursuits. I can look after myself.”
“You’ve done a fine job of that thus far.” The cutting words, cold and precise as a blade, slid out of his mouth before he could contain them. “Marrying a man who took you to a country that was dangerous for anyone with noble blood. The consequences of his carelessness led to your imprisonment for five years.”
Temper flashed in her eyes like gray lightning. “Do not dare speak ill of my late husband. Laurent did not choose to die and leave me alone. Unlike you, who couldn’t even be bothered to answer any of my letters after you fled London without a word.”
He opened his mouth to retort but paused when he caught the meaning of her words. “What letters?”
“The ones I sent you after that evening at Langtry. Although I obviously needn’t have bothered.” She huffed a short laugh that contained no mirth. “You couldn’t put enough distance between us after that night.”
“You sent me letters?” He learned forward, his heart beating faster. “When? How many?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I suppose you are going to tell me you did not receive them.”
“When precisely did you send these letters?”
“Perhaps one of my messages could have been mislaid, but not all of them.”
“When?” he demanded in a hard tone.
“I penned them before I married Laurent.”
He took a deep breath. “You sent word of your impending marriage?”
“Several letters.” She searched his face. “I sent several.”
“I never received any letter from you. Not a one. I swear it.” His heart pounded so furiously he could hardly breathe. “What did they say?”
She went very pale, and her body seemed to vibrate with restrained emotion. “It is of no consequence now.” The words were shaky. “It is all long over and done with.”
“It matters to me.”
She rose and so did he, since a gentleman never remained sitting when a lady stood. “I feel unwell. I must go.” She seemed agitated and her color had not improved. He paid
for their meal and escorted her to her waiting carriage.
“Elle,” he said softly. “Please tell me what the letters said.”
Her footman opened the carriage door and lowered the step. She took the servant’s proffered hand and stepped into the conveyance. Sitting, she reached forward and shut the door before the servant could, and then addressed Will through the window.
“I cannot recall the content of the letters,” she said faintly. “It was all so long ago, you understand.” She faced forward, giving him an excellent view of her aristocratic profile—the smooth nose and impossibly carved cheekbones—and rapped on the roof, signaling for the coachman to move.
He watched the conveyance make its way through the crowded sloppy streets, disappearing into the throng of coaches and gentlemen on horseback. She’d dismissed him much as she had six years ago, once again deciding she had no use for him.
But the idea that she had sent letters consumed him. Had the letters said anything beyond informing him of her impending marriage? He’d been dispatched to Brussels on an urgent Home Office matter immediately after her birthday, and the assignment had taken several weeks to complete. During that time, Elle’s letters would have gone to his father’s house. Even if their contents were no longer relevant, he had a powerful desire to know what she’d written.
He returned to his hotel and immediately penned a note, which he posted that very afternoon. As he climbed the stairs back to his chamber, he felt a rush of satisfaction. It was only a matter of time now before he learned what Elle had written.
Chapter 8
Elle couldn’t breathe. How was it possible?
She stared blindly out of the carriage window, the shops and carts and people outside a passing blur. He hadn’t received her letters. All these years, she’d believed he’d ignored them, that he’d been too wrapped up in his old coins to come back and save her. Save them.
