Traitor in Her Arms
Page 1
Traitor in Her Arms is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept Ebook Original
Copyright © 2017 by Shana Galen
Excerpt from A Love to Remember by Bronwen Evans copyright © 2017 by Bronwen Evans
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book A Love to Remember by Bronwen Evans. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
Ebook ISBN 9780399179105
Cover design: Carrie Divine/Seductive Designs
Cover photographs: Period Images (couple), Valentin Valkov/Depositphotos (background)
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Author's Note
Paris, the Reign of Terror
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Shana Galen
About the Author
Excerpt from A Love to Remember
Dear Reader,
Rumors have circulated for years concerning the existence of a real Scarlet Pimpernel. Others have written of him, and undoubtedly you have heard the tales of the Scarlet Pimpernel and his League.
This too is a story spun from a series of “what-ifs,” a fiction different from those you have previously read and therefore all the more entertaining.
Consider the tales of the Pimpernel’s daring, his cunning, his outright bravery in the face of death. Consider the largely fictional accounts from those he rescued—French aristocrats and commoners alike condemned to death in France’s Reign of Terror, saved from the blade of the National Razor by the Pimpernel and his men. And now consider the possibility that these stories are no myth.
The legend is true.
But what you know is not the whole story…
Paris, the Reign of Terror
Gabrielle stood on the swaying tumbrel, the breeze tickling the nape of her neck. Her head felt oddly light, deprived as it was of her thick, heavy mane of unruly brown hair. The loose, uneven strands brushed the skin on her neck like long, pointed fingernails. Would she feel the blade of the guillotine, or would death come fast and sweet as promised?
She clenched her hands on the cart’s rough rail and tried to think of something else—something other than blood and death and the swish the blade made when it fell in the Place Louis XV, now the laughably named Place de la Révolution. This wasn’t a revolution. This was murder.
Her murder.
Her stomach roiled and she closed her eyes and tried to think of happier times.
Mrs. Cress would love this short hairstyle. Of course, she’d bemoan the artless way in which the hair had been hacked off by the prison guard, but Mrs. Cress could fix that. Give Cressy a pair of shears and she’d have Gabrielle’s hair cleverly styled in mere moments. Gabrielle would miss her brash speech and her unfailing loyalty. She’d miss Diana too. Diana had been a good friend, someone she could count on in a crisis. If only Diana were here now, she’d turn her famous imperious stare on these raucous revolutionaries and have Gabrielle free in a moment. She smiled, and then she sighed.
She could admit it. She would miss Ramsey. Pathetic to even think of the lying, deceitful scoundrel. He was the reason she stood here, squeezed ever tighter as guards herded more and more of the condemned onto the already packed cart.
She shouldn’t have trusted him. She shouldn’t have believed him.
She wished he were beside her. She’d like to see him mount the scaffold, face Sanson and his assistant, who worked with that awful blood-red rose clamped between his teeth. She liked to imagine Ramsey would grovel and beg and fall to his knees as the crowd jeered. The assistant would drag him, kicking and screaming, to Madame Guillotine, tie him down, and whoosh! The blade would sing. Ramsey would be no more.
The tumbrel jolted as the horses began a slow plod toward the Rue Royale, now the Rue Nationale. Gabrielle shook her head to clear it, feeling those loose strands of hair on her neck again. She was as bad as the peasants waiting to taunt her and the other condemned as they left the security of the prison. For now, she had bloodlust too.
Only she was the one who would die.
Chapter 1
LONDON, THREE WEEKS EARLIER
Gabrielle hated the reel—rather, she hated her partner for this reel. She could not fault his enthusiasm, but she did protest the way he locked his arm with hers and spun her around as though she were a marionette. She swore at one point her feet had left the floor—and she was not a short woman! By the end of the dance, she was so confused and dizzy she felt as though she had drunk a bottle of champagne. And if Sir Herbert Rutherford swung her about one more time, she would grab said champagne bottle and smash it over his head. Above, the cut crystal in the chandeliers lighting the ballroom glittered drunkenly, and beneath, the polished floor swayed clumsily as she attempted to regain her bearings.
Thankfully, the orchestra’s strings rose to a crescendo, signaling the end of the piece. Sir Herbert tried to spin her for a final flourish, but she caught his sleeve and held on. He gave her a puzzled look, and she disarmed him with what she hoped was a wan smile and a fluttering hand to her forehead.
“Lady McCullough, are you well?”
“Perfectly well. Only”—she allowed her smile to falter, and he leaned in, concern etched in the faint lines on his brow—“would you be so kind as to fetch me a glass of lemon water?”
“Of course, my lady.” He took her arm and paraded her across the ballroom, his chest puffed up with the importance of the task she had given him. She passed a dozen couples, none without a title or a fortune, and few possessing both. Nevertheless, jewels dazzled, laughter tinkled, and the music played on. England’s haute ton had turned out for one of the last balls of the Season in fine form. When she and Rutherford reached a row of Sheraton chairs placed against a wall, Sir Herbert reluctantly released her.
“I shall return.” He gave her a deep bow, and she pressed her lips together to keep from smiling at his seriousness.
Watching his retreating back with narrowed eyes, she waited until his yellow satin coat faded into the crush of people, then turned swiftly and arrowed for the door. There were no guests lingering in the vestibule. It was too early for most to send for carriages and too late for arrivals. The Prince of Wales had arrived three-quarters of an hour ago, and everyone wanted to be present in the ballroom should any drama ensue. Gabrielle almost hoped Prinny would cause a scene. It would make her absence less conspicuous to any who might search for her.
A sleepy footman straightened and nodded at her. She was glad he stood alone. The other footmen were probably outsid
e with the grooms and coachmen, having a wee nip while the quality danced the night away.
“Call for my carriage,” Gabrielle instructed the man. “Lady McCullough.”
The footman raised his eyes, obviously surprised any guest would leave with the prince still in residence, but he dutifully went about his task. As soon as he opened the door and stepped outside, Gabrielle lifted her skirts and took the winding marble steps two at a time. She was out of breath by the time she reached the landing on the second floor. Good Lord, but these town houses in Grosvenor Square were huge. She shouldn’t have allowed her maid to lace her corset so tightly. She struggled to quiet her breathing before padding down the corridor to the last room on the left.
The candles in the wall sconces had all but burned down. They flickered feebly, and she assisted the inevitable by leaning forward and extinguishing them. Murky gray descended, enveloping her in a shroud of stealth. Her black satin gown—open to reveal the silver petticoat beneath and draped behind—though not festive ball attire, melted into the shadows. She quickly removed the diamonds sparkling along her neck and in her ears and tucked them into her bosom. The footman would have returned by now, but he would not yet be suspicious. She would be granted time to fetch her wrap and any other guests traveling with her. She had ten minutes at most before her absence would be noticeable. Not that she worried he would sound an alarm. Still, she did not want her name mentioned when the Duke of Beaumont questioned his staff about suspicious guests in the morning.
With time ticking away, she turned to the door and tried the handle. Locked. She’d expected as much, but it never hurt to try. She had been lucky before. She would be lucky now, she told herself as she reached into her hair and removed an extraneous hairpin fastened into one of the many thick coils. She put her hand on the door and used touch to guide the hairpin silently into the lock. Darkness surrounded her. She closed her eyes anyway, seeing the lock’s mechanism in her mind. She inched the hairpin one way, then another, until she felt resistance. Then it was just a matter of a twist and a pull, and she felt the lock give. She removed the hairpin, tucked the evidence back into her hair, and turned the handle.
A low fire flickered in the hearth, but otherwise the room was shadowy as midnight. Gabrielle did not hesitate, slipping inside and closing the door behind her. She pressed her back against the solid wood and allowed her eyes to adjust.
What she saw was a typical lady’s bedroom. A large tester bed hunkered in the middle of the room, taking up most of the space. The heavy curtains were not drawn, and on the far side she could see a small, elegant desk against the window beside a porcelain washbasin. A pretty dressing table stood at the far wall, beside a door that most likely opened into the dressing room and then the duke’s bedroom. Brushes, combs, and cosmetics littered the table’s surface. She caught a glimpse of sparkle from the jewel of a discarded earring, but she ignored it, her eyes continuing to roam. On the side nearest her, to her right, was a large clothespress. According to the servant she’d questioned, it would be locked as well. When she opened it, she would see the jewelry box. That lock might give her trouble—the more delicate ones tended to be the most difficult—but once she mastered it, Queen Cleopatra’s lapis lazuli necklace would be hers.
With new purpose, she strode to the clothespress, tried the lock, just to be certain, then reached up to extract her hairpin again. She could feel her heart tap excitedly as she slid the metal into the lock. Her breath came in quick, controlled snatches as she twisted the hairpin this way and that. In her mind, a jig played, and she tapped one foot to the tune. It was always thus when she worked—the excitement and fear mixing with the pounding of her blood until she swayed, heady from the combination.
Snick.
Gabrielle smiled, knowing the lock was hers, and if the lock was hers, so was the necklace.
She swung open the door of the clothespress and stepped closer. Just as she had been told, the jewelry box sat on one of the shelves, beside a pile of white underthings. Gabrielle reached out and lifted the box’s lid.
It opened easily and silently, revealing a treasure of rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds. The Duke of Beaumont had been generous to his duchess. But Gabrielle’s eyes scanned the gems quickly, ignoring them, seeing the drawing of Cleopatra’s necklace in her mind. It was a rough piece by current standards, with large rectangles of gold circling the neck, interspersed with beads of lapis lazuli and set off by a large lapis lazuli oval that would have rested in the cleft at the base of Cleopatra’s throat. The pure blue of the mineral in the centerpiece was said to be remarkable.
The necklace was not on the box’s top shelf, as she had been told it would be, but she did not allow the thought of failure to enter her mind. Instead, she lifted a few of the bulkier pieces and searched beneath them. When the necklace was still not to be found, she closed the lid and pulled open the top drawer. More gems glittered, as well as the opalescence of cameos and a collection of iridescent pearls. But no lapis lazuli.
She felt a bead of sweat trickle down her back as she slid the drawer closed and opened the bottom one. She already knew she would not find it.
“Disappointing, isn’t it?” a deep voice murmured beside her.
Gabrielle’s heart jumped, her nerves following, but by sheer force of will, she stilled her body. Blowing out a slow, measured breath, she turned ever so slowly toward the sound of the voice and saw only the door of the clothespress. As she watched—heart pounding so hard she feared it would burst—the door creaked closed, revealing a man on the other side.
“You,” she whispered.
“Ah, Lady McCullough, you haven’t forgotten me then.” He cocked a brow in a gesture she had at one time found charming but now only served to irritate her. Her heart still pounded, beating in anger, not fear.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed, stepping back. She could smell him, that sweet scent of bergamot she associated only with him. She needed space to breathe, to think, to plan.
“I might ask you the same question, my lady.”
She smiled stiffly. “Why, I’m fetching a piece of jewelry at Her Grace’s request.” She blinked innocently. “I’m certain that must be obvious.”
He nodded at the hairpin, still clutched between her fingers. “And she mistakenly forgot to give you the key.”
“Exactly.”
He stepped closer, and she forced herself to breathe normally. She would not inhale his dizzying scent. She would not allow him to affect her.
“Do you know what I think?”
Her traitorous gaze dipped to his lips—full, soft lips with a hint of dark, rugged stubble around them. Her breath caught, and she forced her gaze back up again. But looking into his eyes—eyes she knew were as green as the emeralds in the jewelry box beside her—did not have the desired effect, and she found herself digging her nails into her palm. Blink, Gabrielle.
“I think,” he continued, his lips so close she could feel his sweet breath on her cheek, “you are a thief.”
To her credit, her gaze did not waver, held his. “What does that make you?”
He shrugged. “A lover.” He backed up, catlike, toward the bed. “I’m waiting for Her Grace. A secret rendezvous.” In one quick gesture, he was lounging on the bed, reclining as sleekly as a black jaguar.
As dangerous too, she knew. The necklace was not here. The duchess was not wearing it, which meant, either Ramsey, Lord Sedgwick, now reclining with deceptive innocence on the bed had taken it—or someone else had beat her to it.
She gazed at Sedgwick again, eyes narrowed. Lover? She doubted it. The fifty-year-old duchess and mother of five was not Sedgwick’s usual fare. He was here for the necklace. That was the only explanation. Now…how to get it from him?
“How romantic,” she drawled, stepping forward and closing the clothespress door behind her. Time ticked away. She needed that necklace. “Funny that the duchess should send me to fetch a trinket when she knew you waited for her.”
“Perhaps she sent you in her place.” He patted the empty spot on the bed beside him, the invitation in his eyes clear. But behind that invitation, she saw calculation and smugness. He thought he was winning. He thought she would flee, leaving him to walk away with the necklace.
He did not know her nearly as well as he thought.
She reached the bed, leaned over, and stroked a hand down his cheek. The rough texture left her fingertips tingling enticingly. She ignored the feeling, instead concentrating on where he might be hiding the necklace. His coat? His breeches? Both were scandalously snug…
At this angle, she knew he had a distracting view of her bosom, but his eyes never left her face. She smiled seductively, leaned down farther, and pressed her lips to his.
It was easier than she thought it would be. No jolt of heat, no memory of what had passed between them all those years ago, rushed back at her. This was simply a new direction in her plan. She would kiss him, run her fingers along his body, distract him, until she located the necklace. She was an excellent pickpocket. It would take little to extract the necklace—then extract herself.
But just as she reached out to begin her exploration, his mouth slaked over hers and his arms came around her. Before she could protest, she was on the bed, on her back, and he bent over her, kissing her hungrily.
Oh no.
The flash of heat tore through her belly, infusing her limbs with warmth and sensitivity. It seemed every part of her was too warm and too aware. And he—he was touching her everywhere, stoking the fire, making her gasp and moan against her will.