She didn’t answer. Her emotions went against every moral and rational thought she had.
He brushed the hair back from her cheek with his knuckles. “Protect yourself. Keep my woman safe for me.”
His touch was gone as quickly as it had come and he rocked back on his heel in the insouciant slouch of the gentleman of means about town. Yet his possessive words stayed with her. Keep my woman safe. She wasn’t his woman. Never would be. But she didn’t need to repeat the protest again. No matter how much he tried to claim her with words, no matter how many times their bodies joined, even as her heart yearned to meet his, she would never be his woman.
Even if his actions were noble, it would be difficult to look past the misfortune of his birth. She didn’t need to marry a nobleman but she did need a man well respected by society, whose position in it would not stifle her own interests. The world was not kind to people with neither power nor wealth. Her position in society had offered her enough power to force a man into exile.
“And stay away from Albertina Abbings. Don’t look like that. You well know she was Powell’s mistress. Your continued proximity could lead to unfortunate conclusions.” Jane didn’t like the command at all, wanted to tell Gerard she could very well do what she liked, but she recognized that impulse for a childish contrariness. Perhaps she was angry and frustrated to be kept ignorant on a matter that seemed so very integral to her life and her future happiness, but Gerard did love her. This was Gerard’s area of expertise. If she was ever to trust him, in this matter she knew she should.
“She might be hard to stay away from,” Jane said with a smile, aware at the edge of her mind that withholding agreement was a petty way of maintaining power. “I think Mrs. Abbings has decided we should be friends.”
“Why is that? Is she grieving? Has she asked for last remembrances of her lover?”
The suggested behavior was so different from Mrs. Abbings’ actual behavior that Jane stared at Gerard in shock. He was right. It was odd that Powell’s lover exhibited few expressions of grief.
“Perhaps I have finally made you listen to me. This is no jest.”
She nodded. “I do understand, but…can you not see how it is for me? To love you on blind faith?”
His lips set grimly. “Not on blind faith. You know exactly what I am.”
“But I don’t!” She didn’t believe him. He could not be as mercenary as he said. As callous and cold. In rational men such as politicians, intellect, wisdom, and the ability to put emotional responses aside to make decisions for the greater good might be revered, called reasonable. But Gerard did not claim to believe in a greater good.
How could love blossom in such a barren place?
Gerard left the Prater furious and helpless, knowing his fury was an impossible thing. He wanted her to love him for who he was, but how could he ask that of anyone? How could she truly love him? Perhaps, she did not. She had certainly not said as much.
Did it matter? He wanted her and was determined to have her. Perhaps his love for her was an excuse to leave his life behind and to begin a new one. If that were so, he didn’t need her at all to do that. He could be the man he wished to be on his own. But that thought didn’t excite him and a future without her was not nearly as bright.
It would be so much easier to not feel this twisting knife of shame and yearning in his gut. To not desperately wish that he could magically be the man who inspired trust and admiration in her.
Exhaustion swept like a wave over him. He stopped in surprise, rested a hand on the cold stone of building to his left. Yes, he had had little sleep but that was not unusual for him when he was in the midst of a job, and for now, that was still what this was.
He blinked, cleared his vision and continued on. He had faith in Jane’s intelligence now that she knew the danger. He could have entrusted her with another task, with redirecting her interest in Powell publically so people would think it had been for another reason. Jealousy, perhaps. Her proximity to Mrs. Abbings might be fuel to that fire but he did not want her near the woman and the other new dangers she entailed. The last thing Gerard needed was for Metternich to think Powell’s deal was more complicated than a falling out with a partner in trade.
For a brief moment a more complex plan titillated his mind, a Machiavellian one in which he used Metternich and the congress’s concerns to ruin Szabo completely. Bohm would be willing to assist, no doubt, but such a complex plot was not worth the risks when all Gerard wished was to keep Jane safe. The simplest plan was the best, which meant redirection, and if not that Jane was Powell’s lover (the mere thought sent a burning fury through the pit of Gerard’s stomach), then by some other obfuscation.
Another stop at his rooms, where he changed his clothes, added new details to his disguise, this time dressing for stealth, for mixing into the Viennese populace, the surroundings, completely. This afternoon he would see Szabo.
The word spy was an inglorious one. It meant a man doing work for his country without their protection. Or for some other employer, which was even less glorious. It was always understood that if caught Gerard had acted on his own, was not connected to the client in any way. Not that Gerard had ever been caught by anyone other than Badeau during the early days of training.
Regardless, spying compounded by the act of assassination made Gerard’s past actions unforgiveable. One Voltaire quote summed it up quite nicely. “It is forbidden to kill. Therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.”
He was not a soldier. His actions would not be excused. This had never bothered him before. Or rather, not since that first death, since he had come to terms with the life into which he had been thrust. And it did not bother him now. For the first time he was acting fully on his own behalf to ensure that he could safely leave Jane in Vienna while he traveled to London to see his grandfather. A request of this magnitude could not be made in a letter written in code. Written in blood, even.
Though Szabo often dealt in the shadows, he was in fact a wealthy man of business, supposedly respected by his peers, and as such, his schedule was strikingly regular. Moreover, he was a man of habits, from his morning pastries to the time he arrived at the squat building on the banks of the Danube where he had his main offices. His partner, Ambroos de Groot, dealt with shipping across the oceans but Szabo managed continental affairs, transportation via rivers and across mountains, all the details and logistics necessary to sell the goods they imported from across the world.
He was an enterprising man, and Gerard might have respected him if it were not for Bohm’s story. But he did know Bohm’s tale, and half a dozen others, and thus he resented the debt he had felt obligated to repay, the debt that had put him under Szabo’s thumb.
At the same time that it galled him that his last job would be one he had not wished to complete in the first place, his distaste for the work would make it easier to walk away, to be satisfied with a life out of the shadows. Jane had mocked the idea of them rusticating and Gerard had laughed with her, understanding. But he craved peace.
And he would have it.
The bustling activity around the riverfront warehouse masked the six men guarding the front office. A casual observer would only notice the one man standing attention by the door. However, the others Gerard spotted easily. There would be an equal number at every entrance and exit to the building, if Szabo had kept to his usual specifications.
He observed the warehouse, through the shift change and as darkness fell over the city. Szabo liked to come and go from the river, and if Gerard’s goal were an ambush, that would be the weakness he would utilize. For a moment he allowed himself to enjoy the fantasy of killing the man, the way the grand plan of ruining him had been a pleasurable digression in thought. However, assassination came with its own consequences, few of which were directly related to the Powell matter, and would likely mean more loose ends to tie up. Therefore, Gerard’s plan to keep Jane safe would have to be more com
plicated than mere assassination.
He did not wait for Szabo to leave the warehouse before crossing town to observe the man’s lodgings. The townhouse was in a respectable part of the city, housing Szabo’s mistress and three daughters. A family man. Two families, as his wife lived in Budapest with his other children.
The building was as much a fortress as the warehouse but with its own weaknesses. Gerard did not intend to exploit any of them unless absolutely necessary. Instead, he ascertained the mistress’s plans for the evening, a ball which most of Vienna society would attend. It was not the normal order of things but as much as the congress complicated matters, it was making this one simpler. At the ball, he would sow the seeds of his campaign.
The ballroom was well lighted, and filled with people in masks or dominoes. Despite the pretense of disguise, it was easy to see that nearly all of Austria and its visiting potentates were there. The Emperor of Russia, King of Denmark, and the Archdukes of Austria were in attendance, dancing, ordering supper or partaking in refreshments in the rooms adjoining the gallery.
Through the crowd, Gerard passed like a wraith, noticed only when he wished to be. It was relatively easy for a dark-haired man in a domino to blend in with all the rest of the dark-haired men of Europe.
He spotted Jane from the line of her back, the space between her jaw and her shoulder at just the right angle. Lust surged through him, heat gathering in his loins, hard and urgent, as if he were an untried youth…and yet, with a man’s knowledge that made the desire that much more fierce.
As he moved toward her, he took in the details of her appearance, the costume that was intended to amuse but not obscure. Rather the opposite of obscure. The thin white cloth, in imitation of a toga, gathered high on her shoulders revealed the long lines of her slender arms. She wore long gloves that drew attention to each elegant movement or gesticulation. Gold rope tied beneath her bosom… He stopped there, enjoyed the two smooth rises of flesh above the fabric.
He was lost.
He shook his head mentally, continued to survey the crowd, and spotted Bohm. Relief thrummed through him. He made no attempt to acknowledge the man. After all, if Bohm did not already see him, he would soon enough. Gerard continued on, until he was close enough he could hear fragments of the conversation Jane shared with her father and another man. Something about Saxony and whether England would in the end support the legitimacy of the king Napoleon had brought to power or deny it.
He was now close enough to catch her gaze, to watch the corner of her mouth quirk just the tiniest bit, her head cock ever so slightly. As a conversational tidbit erupted into a punctuating laughter, Gerard stepped forward.
“Lady Jane,” he said with a bow, insinuating himself into the conversation. He felt the inquisitive stares of her father and the other man.
“Forgive me, Mr…”
“Badeau, yes, of course, introductions were rather hasty yesterday.” He surreptitiously watched Langley for his reaction. It was unlikely that his grandfather had mentioned his name ever to his friend, but not impossible.
She laughed. “Mr. Badeau, I did not forget you, simply your name. Papa, Mr. Tuttle, allow me to introduce you to Gerard Badeau. Mr. Badeau, Lord Langley and Gavin Tuttle.”
He had never met Langley before, though he had heard of the man through his grandfather. It was fascinating to see him side by side with his daughter. Some of Langley’s graying hair was the same light brown shade as Jane’s, and his heavily lidded eyes were the same clear pale blue. They shared some mannerisms as well, but there the similarities ended.
“Badeau… French?”
“By birth,” Gerard said. “I have lived abroad since the terror.” It was not the strictest truth, but it was an answer that usually put Englishmen at ease, one that suggested Gerard’s family was well born enough to fear the wrath of France’s citizens.
And, under normal circumstances, this was the man whose permission he would request to marry Jane. But this was not a normal circumstance. Jane was of age to consent on her own and if Gerard did choose to abide by that social nicety, he would do so only as a formality.
“What brings you to Vienna?” This from Mr. Tuttle. Gerard was not particularly interested in the man. Still, he had assessed him out of reflex, first from a distance and now at closer quarters. Somewhere in his thirties, the man had the look of one attached to the diplomatic corps, used to copious paperwork and drudgery.
“The menagerie,” Gerard quipped. The expected laughter eased the tension of new acquaintances and into the more congenial space, he added, “And a matter of business to which to attend.” It was a fine line to walk to try and portray the epitome of gentlemanly insouciance at the same time as reassure Lord Langley that he possessed a certain amount of gravity.
Understanding slammed into Gerard’s chest like a sack of stones. He was attempting to impress the damned man after all, but all of it was merely shades of truth. A sham really. He exchanged banalities for a handful of moments, aware that Jane was watching him intently. Too intently.
“Forgive me, gentlemen. My true purpose is to ask Lady Jane for this next dance. With your permission?”
Jane obligingly smiled and took his arm, but when they were a few steps away from her father, she questioned him. “What are you doing here?”
“Dancing with you,” he said, even though they were still on the fringes of the ballroom as he surveyed where best to join the dancing figures. “Will you dance with me?”
He sent her a teasing grin, but her more serious expression was not what he expected in return.
“Isn’t it dangerous? In public?”
He tensed, re-examining everything at the mere suggestion. It was habit to constantly think about dangers, so much a habit that he had not questioned his actions.
“Gerard Badeau is not connected to anyone from whom I anticipate danger.”
“But I am, as you have said, and thus everyone to whom I speak is suspect, no?”
She was right. Those disguises that were only meant to deflect attention could allow someone to see the shape of his ear, or the slope of his shoulder, and take a second look. And wearing a domino as he was, perhaps he was even more recognizable. It was the sort of mistake Gerard had never made before. The sort of mistake that would get him killed. Get Jane killed.
He scanned the crowd, spotted Bohm again, but no one else that raised alarm. Certainly there were other men and women of intrigue here, but none yet focused on him.
“This way.” He ushered her into the long gallery that paralleled the ballroom. Here it was less brightly illuminated, darkened alcoves perfect for trysts.
“My father will wonder that we are not among the dancers.”
“With this crush your father will not notice,” he said, finding one of those alcoves empty and drawing her into it, into the deepest shadows of the accommodating draperies.
He pulled her against him, bent his head to the soft lobe of her ear. “Here, then,” he whispered. “Dance with me here.”
She lifted her arms, fit her body to his, far closer than they would if they were to waltz in public where anyone could see. He took a step forward and she followed his lead. There was no room for a proper waltz but he turned her in place, small steps that rotated them around and around, that made her skirt billow out against his legs and her breath turn to laughter.
He had always enjoyed dancing, had understood its appeal even when not being used to advance his agenda, but as with everything else, with Jane it transformed into something else entirely.
“What a boy you are!” Jane said, looking up at him, her lips pursed in amusement. “The fierce assassin, spy, whatever you are…”
“Hush. Even here the walls might have ears.”
She wilted against him.
“I don’t think I am made for this sort of intrigue and secrecy. I prefer the game of chess, strategy but actions taken visibly. A game board everyone can see.”
“What I do…everyone who is looking
can see that too.”
She nodded, but rested her head against his shoulder, swayed to the distant strains of the orchestra. He moved with her until they were dancing once more, hip to hip, chest to chest, thigh to thigh.
“I can regret nothing about the way you came into my life,” he murmured. “But I do not wish you to be endangered. And you are. My warnings of this afternoon…I have thought through the puzzle again and again but the easiest solution to throwing others off the scent presents other problems.”
“No riddles,” she said, pushing away from him, irritation clear in her voice. “Speak plainly if you are to at all.”
He hesitated. “There are some who believe you would only make inquiries into Powell’s matters if you know too much and thus need to be eliminated. We must give them another story that they can believe.”
“Ah, that Powell and I were lovers? I would never have been his lover and could not bear to be thought to have been so, no matter the danger to my life,” she said with a laugh. But she was trembling.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
“When the danger was you…”
He pressed his lips together against the anger and impotence. She was right. As Bohm had said, if Szabo truly wished Jane dead, Bohm alone might not be enough defense.
“Come with me to London. I can protect you there.”
“And say what to my father? That man you just met? He is my lover and I intend to elope with him?”
“No, but that sounds rather good now that you’ve suggested it.” The boldness of it did appeal to him, as did the suggestion that Jane would indeed be willing to elope.
“You are impossible.”
He lifted his hand, cradled her head, and ran his thumb over the soft skin of her cheek. He wasn’t certain yet how he would forge their path forward, but forge it he would. “We are impossible, but inevitable.”
“Gerard.” Jane said his name on a sigh, exhausted, confused, and made dizzy by his nearness. The idea that someone would target her for death specifically was anathema to her very sense of the order of the world, an order that Gerard had upended and continued to spin, as if she were a planet set off its usual axis.
Lady of Intrigue Page 13
