by Gaelen Foley
“Isn’t it the perfect excuse to go see her?” Talbert asked with a grin.
Scowling, Lucien turned away, but his heart had begun pounding at the mere thought of seeing her. Simply being near her strengthened him, and today he needed all the help he could get. The lads were right. She was talented at portrait work. He had seen that for himself. And God knew he was dying to find out what her answer had been to Damien.
He let out a huff full of bravado. “Oh, very well. I can’t believe I’m letting you little bastards talk me into this.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
“Could get there blindfolded.”
“Did he just blush?” Talbert asked Marc as Lucien strode over to his black stallion and swung up into the saddle.
“I heard that,” he retorted.
A short while later, he dismounted in front of the Montagues’ townhouse in Upper Brooke Street. Leaving his horse with his men, he strode up to the front door, braced himself, and knocked. God’s blood, he was as nervous as a youth—dry-mouthed, his pulse racing, his heart thumping in a state of jealous, tortured love. The minute or two that he waited on her doorstep felt like an eternity. He took his fob watch out of his waistcoat. Twenty past three. He snapped it shut again and tucked it back into his pocket just as a pleasant-looking little butler with a well-polished bald head answered.
“Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?”
“Er, good afternoon,” Lucien forced out brightly as he fidgeted with his riding crop. “I am here to see—” He swallowed hard. “—Miss Montague.”
“Whom shall I say is calling, sir?”
“Lord Lucien Knight.”
The butler’s amiable face instantly turned severe; his posture stiffened. Lucien realized in dismay that the good servant obviously recognized his name from his earlier adventures with the baroness.
“Begging your pardon, my lord,” the butler said, lifting his chin to a haughty angle. “Did I understand you correctly? You wish to see Lady Glenwood?”
“No, you impertinent flea. Miss Montague, please,” he repeated, his face coloring with—was it shame for his past behavior? he thought. Good God, what was happening to him? He was as bewildered as a snake that had begun to shed its skin.
“One moment.” Glaring with affront, the butler shut the door in his face.
This did not look promising. He turned away, tapping his riding crop against his leg with jittery impatience. What if she refused to see him?
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a flutter of motion in the window as the curtain moved. He looked over quickly, but whoever had been peering out at him had vanished. He narrowed his eyes. Was the chit planning on hiding from him, pretending she wasn’t at home, perhaps?
Watching the window a moment longer, however, he lifted his eyebrows as a small, downy-blond head appeared. Young Master Harry must have climbed up onto a piece of furniture, for presently, he peeped out the window at Lucien, looking altogether pleased with himself. Lucien smiled slowly, charmed by the tot’s sparkling, china-blue eyes and babyish grin.
When Lucien bowed to the tot, Harry ducked out of sight. Lucien frowned. A second later, the toddler looked out at him again, playing peekaboo. Lucien laughed softly and decided to rob Miss Montague of the chance to evade him. He opened the front door and poked his head in, bringing Alice’s whispered, worried exchange with the butler to an abrupt halt. They were standing in the entrance hall.
“—Am I to tell him you are not at home?”
“Lucien!” she forced out, her eyes widening. Then her cheeks blazed. “Oh, Lord! You cannot just walk into someone’s house!”
“Really, sir!” the butler scolded, but Lucien stared only at her.
“Hullo,” he said hopefully, gazing at her with his penitent heart in his eyes.
She braced her hands on her slim waist. “What are you doing here?”
God, she looked adorable. She was clad in a loose-fitting morning gown covered by a pretty, frilled house apron, her luxurious hair flowing long and unbound over her shoulders in a most fetching state of dishabille. This was his beloved as he remembered her best, not the terrifyingly beautiful goddess in white from the ballroom the night before.
Before he could gather his wits to launch into his request for her drawing skills, Harry came charging out of the front parlor to investigate. He hurled himself up against Alice, cushioned by the softness of her skirts.
She wrapped her arm around his small shoulders with an automatic gesture, steadying him. Half hiding behind his lovely young aunt, Harry stuck his finger in his mouth and studied Lucien from a wary distance in intense curiosity.
Lucien gazed back at them. The sight of the woman and child together, both staring at him, moved him on some deep inner plane that he had never known existed. Moving carefully, he closed the front door behind him and slowly lowered himself to a crouched position a few feet away from Alice and the boy.
“Hullo, Master Harry. My name is Lord Lucien.”
“Um, we have kitties in our garden. They’re strays,” Harry said proudly.
“Aren’t you lucky,” he said with a soft laugh. “I only have dogs in my garden. Big, ugly ones.”
Harry’s eyebrows shot up, and he took his finger out of his mouth. “I have a dog at home in the country. She’s a country dog. She catches wabbits!”
Lucien grinned and glanced up at Alice. His smile faded when he saw the tears in her eyes. Holding fast onto Harry’s little shoulders, she looked away and petted his head.
“Harry, I brought you something. I heard you had the chicken pox, and I thought this might cheer you up.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small triangular bar of quartz and held it up before the child’s wonder-filled eyes. “It’s called a prism. Did you ever see one of these before?”
The boy’s whole body turned as he shook his head, his finger in his mouth.
“Come here. I’ll show you how it works.” He rested his knee on the floor and offered Harry his other hand. The boy came to him trustingly. Lucien slipped his arm around the child and held the prism up to the golden ray of late-day sun that streamed through the crescent-shaped window above the door. “It just looks like plain glass, doesn’t it? But when you tilt it . . . Do you see?” Lucien pointed to the refracted array of colors cascading onto the marble floor.
“Colors!” Harry gasped. He reached for the prism and pulled it into his grasp, staring at it. “How did you do that?” He began shaking it.
“You have to hold it up to the light and tilt it until they come out again.”
“It’s a wainbow,” Harry said reverently, then gave him a look of perplexity.
“Do you know your colors?” he asked.
“Wed, green, blue, yellow,” he recited proudly.
“Zounds, you know them all!” he said in vast admiration, then smiled at Alice. “Did you teach him that?”
She sniffled and nodded, watching them with her arms folded tightly across her chest. Harry giggled, snuggling up to Lucien and studying him at close range. Lucien gazed at him for a long moment, easily able to see why Alice was so devoted to the child. He was clever, likable, and irresistibly cute. Though the dark-haired, dark-eyed Caro was his mother, Harry had the Montagues’ fair coloring and blue eyes. Lucien gave his little nose a pinch.
“Why don’t you go show your aunt how the prism works?”
He ran over to Alice. “Look, it’s a prison!”
“Prism, Harry. Prism, not prison.” She bent down and helped him hold the prism just so, making the light bend and the colors appear. “Pretty!” she cooed to him. “Tell Lord Lucien thank you.”
“Thank you!” he yelled.
“You’re welcome,” Lucien said in amusement.
After another moment, Alice sent Harry back to his nurse with a kiss. “Mr. Hattersley, would you kindly take him back to Peg?” she asked when the butler reappeared in answer to her summons.
“Indeed, Miss. Master Harry, if yo
u please.”
“Bye-bye!” Harry called, waving to Lucien as the butler carried him up the steps.
Lucien waved back. “Good-bye, Harry.”
He and Alice were left standing together in the entrance hall in awkward silence. Lucien had a feeling that if Harry had not taken to him, she would have thrown him out already.
“He’s a charming little scamp.”
“Yes.” She put her hands in her apron pockets and shifted her weight onto her other foot. “What do you want?”
“I, er, need to borrow your talents.”
She lifted her eyebrows with an aloof, questioning look.
“The man I’ve been trying to locate—well, the lads were hoping you might be willing to make a sketch of his face based on my description. If we can get an accurate drawing of him, maybe the Bow Street Runners or the constable’s men will have more luck finding him.”
“I see. You came for a favor. After the way you’ve treated me.”
“It’s not so much for me! He’s a very dangerous man. He’s at large. We’re running out of time. . . .” His voice trailed off in dismay.
With a sigh, she turned around and walked away, going down the corridor. “Just let me get my charcoals.”
His heart soared. “Thank you.”
She waved him off with a rude gesture and disappeared into a room at the end of the hallway. While she went to fetch her sketchbook and charcoals, Lucien stepped back outside and dispatched Marc and the other lads to various posts around the first floor of the terrace house to keep watch for any sign of trouble. When he went back inside, Alice was standing at the end of the corridor. She beckoned to him, then let him into the morning room and sat down on a Windsor chair by the oak worktable, tucking her feet under her chair.
She rested her sketchbook on her lap and waited, a stub of charcoal in her hand, then looked up, still bristling at him a bit. “Did you want something to drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“Then let’s get this over with.”
“Right.” He paced, restless with her nearness. “The subject is male, French, about forty years old.”
“Describe the shape of his face. Round, square?”
“Rectangular, I suppose, with a cleft chin.”
“We’re not at the chin yet.”
“Well, pardon me,” he retorted, stung by her snippy tone.
She tilted her head and drew a deep breath. “We’ll be working from the top down,” she explained in a more civil manner. “How would you describe his forehead?”
“Wide. Thick eyebrows. Deep hollows under the eyes.”
Her hand moved with swift, light grace over the page, making a few preliminary lines. The only sound was the soft, wispy scraping of her charcoal feathering over the page. “What sort of nose does he have?”
“Big and ugly. Like a potato,” he muttered.
“A potato?” she asked quizzically.
He shrugged.
“Right.” She chewed her lip in concentration as she worked, unaware that Lucien was gazing at her with his heart in his eyes.
She looked up and noticed his forlorn stare before he could hide it. They gazed at each other for a long moment.
“Alice?” he whispered.
Her mouth trembled. “Yes?”
“I think—there’s something I have to tell you.” He felt physically ill at the prospect before him, but he knew he was going to lose her if he didn’t say what needed to be said.
“What is it?”
He lowered his head, then walked with measured paces to the door of the morning room, and shut it. Unable to meet her gaze, he closed his eyes and willed himself to be done with it. “I would not have chosen this over you unless I had a very good reason.” He swallowed hard. His heart was pounding recklessly. He took a deep breath. “Last spring I was captured in France by this man and his associates. I was held as their prisoner for five weeks before I managed to escape. Under torture—”
“Torture?” she asked sharply.
He brought his chin up and forced himself to meet her stricken stare from across the room. “Of course,” he said with far more self-possession than he felt. “Every agent knows that torture and execution are distinct possibilities if one is captured.”
Turning pale with shock, she looked down at the half-completed sketch. “This man tortured you?”
“He did his job. He did it well. I broke, Alice.” He shook his head slowly. “I finally revealed the name of one of my associates, Patrick Kelley. He was a fine man, a mentor of mine. I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t even know what I was saying. When I regained my senses, I was too late. Bardou had already gone. He hunted Kelley down and killed him on the strength of my information.” He clenched his fists at his sides, shuddering. “I was weak. I am as responsible for my friend’s death as though I’d cut his throat myself. That is why I, and I alone, must kill Bardou.”
“Oh, Lucien,” she whispered.
“I couldn’t tell you before. I didn’t want you to know I was afraid,” he said, barely audibly.
She put her sketch pad aside and held out her arms to him. “Come to me.”
He crossed the room on legs that trembled beneath him and knelt down before her chair. He stared into her eyes, trying anxiously to read her reaction, desperate to see if she still could respect him after his weakness, his terrible betrayal of his friend.
Tears flooded her eyes. She shook her head and pulled him into her arms. She stroked his hair, kissed his face, overwhelmed him with her gentleness. The pain that he had kept neatly coiled and tucked away inside of him for so long began to unfurl and to swell like wet ropes, like the binds that had chafed his wrists raw for so long in that French cellar.
His eyes burned with anguish as he laid his head on her lap. She bent over him, holding him in tender strength. He kept his head down, burying his face in her long golden hair as it spilled over him.
“It’s all right,” she whispered, caressing his back. “Tell me what happened.”
His throat was so tightly constricted he could barely breathe, but he forced himself to obey her. She deserved that from him. “I’ve never told anyone before. Not Damien, not even Castlereagh. Bardou was in charge of the operation. They caught me in Paris, lured me into an alley by using a young girl. I heard her screaming. I thought someone was being attacked. When I went into the alley to try to help, I was struck over the head, blindfolded. They threw me into a carriage and drove. I don’t know where exactly it was.” He paused, forcing himself to tell her the full, ugly truth. He realized he was shaking, his hold on himself becoming frayed, as though the ropes were about to break. He labored inwardly to free himself.
“For the next five weeks, I was locked in a cold, clammy cellar without light, just enough food and water to keep me alive. The thirst was terrible. They beat me. Starved me. They held me down and pulled two of my damned teeth out when I wouldn’t talk. Threatened to rape me, threatened to castrate me, threatened every damned thing. They wanted me to turn traitor, but I resisted.” He drew an unsteady breath while Alice watched every nuance of tormented emotion that flitted across his face. “I think I must have gone a little mad for a while afterwards,” he forced out. “I don’t remember much about the few weeks that followed. I wound up in a monastery just over the Spanish border where I received medical attention. There were some guerrilleros under a priest called Padre Garcia. They were using the monastery as their headquarters. It had been fortified since the days of the Moors. Garcia and his men brought me back to Wellington’s headquarters.”
“How did you manage to escape your captors?”
“I finally killed one of them when he came to look in on me. I took his weapon and fought my way out. I killed every one of them,” he said grimly, “except Bardou. He had already left to hunt down Patrick Kelley.”
They were both silent for a long moment.
“Oh, Alice,” he said in a kind of spiritual exhaustion, “I’ve given all I have to g
ive to this war since I was twenty-six years old. I’ve given what even Damien would not give—my good name; I knew what I was getting into, but everyone thinks I’m a blackguard and that is hard.”
She touched his face in wordless empathy. He pressed his cheek into her hand, but could not bring himself to meet her gaze.
Abruptly, without warning, more words came tumbling out of him in a rush, devoid of his usual silver-tongued eloquence. “I never even wanted to go to the war! I should’ve been a doctor. I wanted to use the gifts God gave me to heal people, not to kill them, but my first loyalty was to my brother. Always my brother. I gave away my future for him. I damned myself for him because he was the only friend I ever really had, and now he won’t even acknowledge me. I can’t bear for him to take you away from me, as well. You don’t understand how alone I am. If you don’t love me—” He cut his words off and lowered his head hating himself. He felt himself crumbling, finally, unable to avoid or ignore for one second longer the view down into his shattered soul.
He cast about inwardly for his Machiavellian control, but it was nowhere to be found. By God, if she had agreed to wed Damien, so be it. He fought himself, teetering on the edge of despair. Don’t cry in front of her. Don’t cry in front of Alice. For God’s sake, for once in your life, don’t be a little fucking weakling—
But when she lifted his chin with a gentle touch, there were tears of anguish burning in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, startled. “I’m sorry I’m weak. I’m sorry I’m a failure. I’m sorry I’m not as good as—”
“Don’t. Don’t you dare say it,” she warned him, tears rising in her eyes, as well. She shook her head fiercely. “It is not true, not one word of it.”
Lucien stared pleadingly at her. “I know he came here today. I know he asked for your hand. What did you say, Alice? Please tell me.”
“What do you think I said?” she asked with a look of gentle reproach.
He shook his head. “I just don’t know.”
“Lucien.” She curled her fingers around his trembling hands on her lap, gazing intensely at him. “Your brother is a good man, but he’s not you. I said no. I could never love anyone but you, and I told him so.”
