Mary Blayney

by Traitors Kiss; Lovers Kiss

  “When I do lose my temper, I always regret it. There was a time when my father and I did not speak for a year. I wanted to study anatomy and he refused to allow it. Called me a disgusting thrill seeker, a man who used science as an excuse for depraved behavior. I told him that I would leave forever. It was my mother who played peacemaker, as always.”

  Just when he thought he had nattered on quite long enough, she spoke.

  “You would not defy him? Surely you have some money of your own?”

  “Yes, but my mother insisted that she needed me. That she had lost one son in Mexico—he died there when his ship sank—and the other was no better than a wastrel to them.”

  “So you chose to study the stars?”

  “In the end it was what father and I could agree on. He thought it would bore me quickly. I thought I could outlive him and return to my other interests.”

  “And now your father is dead.”

  “Yes. It seems so odd. Hard to believe. The last time I spoke to him, he seemed well enough. Gout and some pains in his back.” He felt little sorrow, was embarrassed to realize that what he felt was relief. “I suppose that my life will not change much. Jessup is healthy and will someday marry an heiress who will support his gambling. Lynford is married and his wife will no doubt provide him with enough boys that in time I will be so far down the line of succession that they will all forget me.” He stopped and turned to her. “That could be true already. Charlotte, do you know if the new duke has children yet?”

  “Not that I know of,” she said, starting them walking again. “You do not wish you were the heir?”

  “Good God, no. The very thought of taking a seat in the House of Lords and listening to their endless machinations would drive me insane.”

  “Surely the wealth and influence is a fair trade for that.”

  “I hope my brother feels that way. As for me, I see now that Dr. Borgos has the truth of it. I want to do something more purposeful with my life than deal with politics. There are others better suited to that than I am. I will study science and at least try to find a way to make the world a better place.”

  She was silent a long time, but she did not laugh at him. When she did speak she changed the subject.

  “You do not mention your other brother, the naval officer.”

  “I just did. David is the one who disappeared in the Gulf of Mexico almost ten years ago.”

  “No. I met him when I traveled to Derbyshire to speak with the duke.”

  “You must have met our bastard brother, Robert Wilton. David is dead.”

  “I know Wilton quite well. And Madeline, his wife.”

  “You are willing to swear that David is back in England?” He still would not accept it.

  “The duke accepts him. The others all call him brother.”

  “Charlotte, I know I frightened you and threatened you in a way that diminishes me as a gentleman…” As he spoke he took a step away from her. It made his words no less intense. “To make this up as retribution, though, is beyond cruel. David was my dearest friend, my hero. I idolized him. I raged at my father when he had him declared officially dead.”

  “And you were right. He is alive.” She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone that moved him from incredulity to possibility.

  “So you are saying that I have lost a father and gained a brother. How odd. How amazing.”

  “Time has not stood still while you have been away,” she said. “Your family has changed. Your life in England will be different now.”

  “I only hope that I have a life left to live.”

  When they reached her house, the only light came from the candles in the salon. It was a sign of safety, he was sure. She used the key and they went in quietly. The cat came from the kitchen and followed them up the stairs. Charlotte showed him to the room at the front of the house.

  She held the key in her hand for a long moment. “I must lock the door. Lock you in.”

  “Yes, I know.” Did she realize that he only allowed it because this was the punishment he had earned for his hideous behavior?

  “I will come for you when the house is awake.”

  He nodded, and she scooped up the cat and left quickly. Gabriel heard the key sound in the lock and still could not resist grabbing the handle and shaking it.

  As he waited out the night he mulled over all he had learned this evening. Gabe turned on his side and pulled the coverlet over his bare shoulders.

  It wasn’t only the locked door that kept him awake. David was alive. He tried to imagine how they had all reacted to it. Olivia would hardly remember him. Jessup would insist on collecting on the wager he had made that David would someday come home. Lynford’s marriage was surely beyond the point where there would be any jealousy over this first of Rowena’s beaus.

  Charlotte had sworn it was the truth. Her whole life was such a tangle of lies, he wondered if she even knew what the truth was. How had she come to play such a charade? How had she even met Lynford? Charlotte Parnell was as puzzling as the appearance of a comet. He hoped she did not disappear as quickly, at least not before he had the answers he wanted.

  Be honest, he berated himself. You want more than answers. Sex, he wanted sex. He could barely tolerate the endless temptation of her scent, her softness, the way she touched him, how she aroused him with little more than a look. He could not forget her until he made love to her again. More than once. When they were back in England, on equal footing. He would be the one seducing her.

  The sounds of the house coming to life woke him from his half sleep. The next act begins, he thought. It felt like he was about to climb a ladder to reach a telescope, with nothing to hold on to for support. It might be worth the risk or it might be the last stupid thing he ever did.

  14

  CHARLOTTE SAT AT her dressing table, combing the tangles from her hair. The loose braid had unraveled during her restless night. She combed it with a familiar comforting rhythm and stared at her reflection, seeing nothing but the remnants of her dream.

  Three soft taps at the door made her gasp. She dropped the brush and put her face in her hands. Be honest with yourself at least. It is not only the dream that upsets you.

  She drew a deep breath and pushed the anxiety away, rose and unlocked the door for Georges. At least some part of her morning would be as it usually was. His “Bonjour, madame” was not much more than a whisper.

  Turning away, she smiled. He treated her with such quiet dignity, when they both knew that acting as a lady’s maid was beneath him, as well as embarrassing.

  Watching him in the mirror, Charlotte saw him glance at the bed and briefly consider the jumbled mess of sheets and covers. Without comment he came toward her, and she stood so he could lace up her dress.

  “Did you have a restless night, madame?”

  “You are the best of valets, Georges. So diplomatic. Always.”

  He glanced at her reflection and their eyes held in the mirror.

  “I had the usual nightmare, that is all,” she said.

  “It will help you look the part.”

  “You mean my dark eyes and haggard face? How practical of you. You are a superior valet but would never do as a lady’s maid. You are too honest by half.”

  He smiled, which made Charlotte smile too. She had always wondered if his rare show of emotion was part of his valet training or part of him as a person.

  She sat back on the small stool in front of her mirror and considered what to do with her hair. “Do you never dream?”

  “We live a nightmare, madame. Is that not enough?”

  She watched him in the mirror as he worked. The silence stretched between them. His guilt upset her. Useless. Pointless. “Georges, you and I were as close to Charles as two people could be. His wife and his valet. You were not the only one taken in. I was too.”

  Georges shook his head, denying what he knew was the truth.

  “He was the most charming man I had ever met,” she continued. “He played on yo
ur loyalty and my youth.” Charles’s smile had seduced her from the moment they met.

  Georges still did not speak, but threw the pillows on the bed as though that would adequately vent his feelings.

  “You could come to England with me. You do not need to stay.”

  “We have had this discussion. I will come only if you allow me to help you and your mother raise the children.”

  “And I will say no, once again. You have done your part, and a house filled with children and not a man in sight is no place for a well-trained valet.”

  She turned in the chair and watched him as he walked to the bed and pulled the covers back. “You do understand, don’t you, Georges? I feel obliged to care for the children.”

  “Yes, madame,” he said wearily.

  Good. At least he had given up trying to talk her out of it. Charlotte began braiding her hair again, this time in a tight pattern with a view to twisting it into an unbecoming coronet at the back of her head.

  “It will end soon, Georges. Though I have no doubt that if I am sent to hell it will be this life I will live again and again. Watching for someone to betray us. Waking up with only the vaguest idea of where I am or who I am supposed to be.”

  Not happy with the feel of her braids, Charlotte turned to the mirror and reworked her hair. When she was finished she stood up and turned to him. “How do I look?”

  “You look quite convincing, and I see you are cold.”

  She shivered despite her best effort not to.

  “You should have let me build a fire.”

  “No, we agreed it would be a waste of money and fuel when I am leaving. Besides, if I am chilled, our supposed poverty will be even more convincing.”

  “I think the patch on the hem of your dress will do that.” He stepped back. “The coarse material is hardly worth mending. He will be better dressed.”

  “Which is as it should be.” Taking a white cotton scarf from a basket near the table, she wrapped it around her shoulders and tucked it into the bodice of her dress.

  “I brought his clothes to him this morning, madame. I do not think that he slept any more than you did.”

  “Hardly surprising,” she said, unsure whether it was guilt or fear that had kept him awake.

  “He asked if you were all right.” Georges watched her reflection as she arranged the fichu, but did not look into her eyes. “Why would he ask that?”

  “Because he lost his temper with me last night,” she admitted. She had never lied to Georges before and was not going to start now. They knew each other better than some couples who shared the same bed. “After the colonel and Raoul left the upper room at the tavern.”

  Georges straightened, with menace in his eyes.

  “Listen to me, please, Georges.” She stood up and walked to him. “Yes, it brought back every horrible memory of Charles. It reminded me that marriage to him cost me my self-respect and my own sense of honor.” She shook her head at his anger. “I am a different person now. I will never be abused that way again. I would have killed him if he had tried to take me. And I would have asked you to dispose of the body.”

  Georges nodded, as if her willingness to murder was as natural as her need to stroke the cat.

  “But Georges,” she reached out a hand and gently touched his arm, “he is as different from Charles Strauss as it is possible for a man to be. He is kind, a sensibility at odds with a temper easily roused. He apologized.” She shook her head, bemused and amused now that it was over. “I hit him.” She smoothed the rough fabric around her neck. “He told me to hit him again if it would make me feel better or safer. His kindness is an essential part of him, but his temper can get the better of him. Sometimes. But always he apologizes. A complicated man. I do not know how he survived prison with no more than scars on his back. Georges, it may be that he is a gentleman in the truest sense of the word.” She patted his arm once more and then sat down again in front of the mirror.

  “You may be right. I hardly know him,” Georges said, grudgingly.

  She prayed she was.

  “Last night,” he went on, “was the first time I have spoken with him outside of the night we went for him. In any case, kindness has been rare these last four years.”

  He reached into the basket, pulled out a threadbare gray shawl and handed it to her. “That white scarf makes you look more like a nun than the wife of a poor fisherman. Try this one.”

  Just looking at it made her shiver.

  “I will have some blankets in the boat, madame.”

  With a resigned sigh, she pulled off the white shawl and smoothed her braids.

  GABRIEL PULLED THE BANDAGE from his face and tossed it toward the children sitting across from him at the kitchen table. The older one, the boy, caught it easily and dropped it as quickly.

  “I will not have my eyes covered,” he snapped. “Whoever heard of a blind fisherman?”

  “Your eyes are too bright,” Charlotte said, reaching to collect the length of bandage. “No one would believe you are injured when they see that endless curiosity of yours.”

  “What? You do not think I can look a fool? You have called me that often enough.” He raised his hands as if to stay an attack. “I will look down. I will stare at the ground. I will know people by their feet only. I will constantly remind myself not to look above your hemline. Surely this bloody wound you concocted on my brow is proof enough. Will it come off?”

  “Yes, it is stain but it will be gone in a day.”

  She eyed her handiwork with a critical eye, then nodded. “All right, I will bandage only your forehead. That is as much as I am willing to compromise.”

  Gabriel sat down again. As she began winding the bandage around his head he wanted to ask what point there was in covering the wound she had so painstakingly drawn and stained. He watched her work in the mirror. He had to admit that the little bit of the wound that showed hinted at something far worse than she had created. Rather like a work of art, he thought.

  The two children were studying them as intently as he was watching Charlotte, ignoring the last of their breakfast, the ubiquitous bread and cheese. The boy was about ten. The other child was a sweet-faced girl whose hair was a riot of unkempt curls. She was younger. Five? They were dressed in something one step up from rags. Had Georges truly found them on the street?

  Neither one spoke a word. They watched him bickering with Charlotte with unconcealed anxiety.

  “He always wants his own way,” Charlotte said to the little girl. “Is your brother like that, chouchou?”

  The little girl’s wrinkled forehead relaxed into a grin as she nodded.

  The boy’s frown deepened.

  “I imagine that he is almost always right, which makes it all the harder. Is that not true?”

  The boy smiled this time. “Oui, madame. C’est vrai.”

  “You understand that for today you must do exactly as I say. Your papa is not quite right in the head and I, your mama, am the one in charge. I know it is unusual.”

  “War is like that,” the boy said with unexpected wisdom.

  “So it is. Remember, no matter what, you are to call us Mama and Papa. Soon we will be away and safe in England.”

  Gabriel listened to the exchange, fascinated by any number of things. Charlotte’s sweetness with the children. Her ability to act the role of mother as convincingly as she played the part of whore.

  The boy’s cultured French accent. This was not the language spoken in the streets. He wondered exactly where she had found these two. If they were indeed siblings. They looked enough alike to be related. More than that, they were comfortable with each other, the girl sitting very close to the boy, as if she sought comfort or protection. Or was she sitting close so she could stroke the cat, stretched across the boy’s lap?

  The oddest thing of all was their complete acceptance of leaving France for England. Was life here such a misery that even the unknown, the enemy, was preferable?

  “Will the cat come
with us?” the boy asked.

  “No. He cares for the house while I am away.”

  The two children grinned at the idea of a cat as housekeeper, and with a neat twist of the bandage, Charlotte finished her task.

  “Finish your breakfast. We leave soon for the fishing boat. And rest assured that there are cats in England.”

  All three of them, Gabriel included, ate one last mouthful of cheese and then stood. He drew a deep breath. Keep the children safe. And see us all home. He remembered the last time he had asked for help, as he begged the men holding him not to set fire to the tavern. No one had been listening that time. Or perhaps there was a grander plan than had yet been revealed. If that was so then, in the name of heaven, let this ruse be part of it.

  15

  CHARLOTTE NEEDED A FEW more minutes to arrange the scene to her satisfaction, finally deciding on leading while holding the girl’s hand. Gabriel, as the injured papa, was to follow, allowing the boy to support him.

  They made their way from the back door through the now familiar alleyway and out onto the street, just as the dead of night gave way to a deep dark gray.

  Gabriel stared at the threadbare shawl that Charlotte had tied around her head and shoulders. Looking neither to the right nor left, up nor down. His occasional stumbles on the uneven cobblestones were not acting. The boy gripped his arm more tightly each time he tripped. The child was taking his role seriously.

  It felt as though they walked for hours, though watching Charlotte as she walked was some distraction. In fact, it could not have taken too long, since the sky had lightened only a little as the smell of the water grew stronger, as did the sounds of waterfront life. The fishermen called to one another. He heard the creak of the boats as they were loaded with lines and nets.

  As close to her as he was, Gabriel noticed the slightest of hesitations. He strained to hear what might have slowed her, but could detect nothing unusual. It took real effort not to glance up. This was surely a punishment from the devil. Inspiration sent from him to Charlotte. To have to remain so completely passive was torture. Refined and not physical, but torture nonetheless.