Nothing But Deception

by Allegra Gray

  The Englishman gave a harsh laugh. “There’s no one who can keep a secret like a woman. And Solange was more than just a woman.”

  “My lord?”

  “Monsieur Durand…may I call you Philippe?”

  “Évidemment.” Given the intimate nature of their conversation, it seemed foolish to insist they stand on ceremony.

  “How well did you know your mother?”

  Philippe didn’t know whether to be offended. “She was closer to me than anyone. I was her only child. She doted on me.”

  Lord Owen smiled. “I’ve no doubt she knew you. But did you know her? Do you know why she sent you here?”

  Philippe knew what he was getting at. It was the same sensation he’d felt when she’d first told him to come to England. “I know she had her secrets. I admit I was angry, unsettled when she told me, but I believe I understand why. It seems the circumstances of my birth were…unconventional.” Philippe had never been shy, but even he found it awkward to speak of such matters to a man he’d just met—no matter how intimately involved in those matters that man had been.

  “Yes. There is that.” Lord Owen paused, rubbing his chin as though deciding on something. “I suppose I owe you an apology. For a grave offense, though one I did not realize I had committed.”

  Philippe waved a hand. “A matter long since past. And not one that has hindered me.”

  “Not you, perhaps. But most certainly one that affected Solange, and for that, the depth of my regret is immeasurable.” He swallowed visibly. “I’d heard that she married, soon after we…soon after I left. I took that as confirmation of my decision, as evidence that I had not, after all, meant so much to her. Now I understand her decision in a very different light.”

  Shame filled Philippe for his selfishness. When his mother had revealed his true parentage, he realized he’d thought only of himself. He’d never considered his mother’s difficult position—though he’d always wondered how she’d come to be paired with Richard Durand, the remote and ambitious man he’d known as a father. “She must have been frightened.”

  “Frightened,” Lord Owen confirmed, “and anxious to prove herself worthy of an advantageous marriage—an offer I failed to make to her, believing the difference in our class too great. I inherited my title rather suddenly, upon my brother’s death, and my determination to live up to his memory included the misguided notion that I must marry someone of similar social standing.

  “Durand, for all his ambition, recognized what I did not—that Solange’s beauty, her talent, were of far greater importance than her family’s circumstances.”

  “Her talent?” Philippe asked. “I know she took pride in hosting my father’s—or stepfather’s, that is—many guests.” But there was something in the way the older man across from him had emphasized the word “talent” that went beyond the duties of a good hostess.

  “A responsibility I imagine she handled with grace. True, Durand forced her to channel that talent for his own purposes. A terrible loss to the world of art.”

  “My lord?”

  The old man closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Finally he opened his eyes. Leaning forward, he met Philippe’s gaze with an intensity that chilled him.

  “Solange sent you here, to me, no? From that I can only surmise that she wanted you to know—though why she preferred I do the telling, I cannot guess. Clearly,” he eyed Philippe, “I am missing large parts of the tale.

  “In spite of the fact that it was I who left Solange, I could not simply let go of the passion we’d shared. Could not let go of her. For some time I kept track of her. I stopped when I learned she had given up painting.”

  Philippe was glad he was sitting, or the flood of understanding might have swept him away. “Gaudet,” he breathed.

  “Yes.”

  “Mon Dieu.”

  Lord Owen glanced at the teapot, now grown cold. “The hour is early, but I believe I need something stronger than tea. You will forgive me if I pour a brandy?”

  “If you pour me one as well.”

  He chuckled and reached for the decanter.

  Philippe tossed back his first drink with nary a thought to its fine quality. Was there no end to his mother’s deceit? He hadn’t known her at all. Certain things made sense, though…the way she’d helped him learn things like perspective when he first began to paint, or the connections she’d used to help him gain recognition as he grew older. He’d simply attributed such things to a keen eye and years of social and political acquaintances gathered as the wife of Richard Durand. Hah.

  Lord Owen poured him a second brandy, then placed the stopper back in the decanter. “Although I can hardly claim any fatherly responsibility, I would like to continue our acquaintance, if you are agreeable. It seems we have much to discuss, though I think enough has been said for one morning.”

  “Bien sûr.” Of course. How else was he to learn about the life of the artist he’d long admired, now that she’d passed on? Henry Owen, he sensed, was not a man who hurried things.

  “How long do you intend to remain in England?” Lord Owen asked.

  “I had intended only a short visit, but I have begun a new work and must extend my stay.”

  “A new painting?”

  “Oui. The subject, and the setting, are English.”

  “A woman,” the old man said sagely. “Your eyes grow softer at the mention of this new subject.”

  Perceptive old man. “Oui, a woman,” Philippe confirmed. As for his eyes growing soft, well, he felt a certain attachment to all his subjects—why else expend the effort to capture them in art? Except that he’d kissed Beatrice Pullington. Thoroughly enough to learn that his proper English widow kissed with searing intensity. And that it frightened her. Intriguing.

  Lord Owen, thankfully, let the matter drop. He looked at Philippe again and shook his head. “A son,” he murmured, his head lowering. “If only I had known.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Lord Owen looked up sharply. “It most certainly is. I cannot make amends with Solange. But know this: I shall do my utmost to find a way to make it up to you.”

  Chapter 8

  “You are in luck, Monsieur Durand.”

  “Oui?” Richard raised an eyebrow.

  André Denis nodded. “We have a strong lead on the information you requested. Some days had passed since the salon featuring your son’s paintings, and we nearly despaired of finding anyone who recalled which other ladies might have worn a pink pelisse that evening—especially without knowing why we were asking the question, which, of course, we could not reveal.”

  Patience was a virtue—and information was power. As much as Richard wished his lead operative would hurry up and provide a name, he understood the value in having the complete picture. André’s vast network of shadowy connections had proven useful more than once over the years.

  Richard squirmed as he waited. The stench of ale, fish, and unwashed sailors permeated the tavern near the docks. He’d attempted to dress the part, but it was André, with the gap in his teeth and two-day-old beard, who appeared right at home.

  “As luck would have it,” the other man finally continued, “the actions of your son led us to our answer, though he may not know it. At the salon, Philippe took the extraordinary step of singling out one guest, a woman, and asking permission to paint her. This, of course, drew the attention of the other guests to the woman in question—a woman who was reportedly wearing a rose-colored gown.”

  He propped his elbows on the rough table and pressed his fingertips together, satisfaction in his tone. “Her name is Lady Beatrice Pullington. English. A bit of research into Lady Pullington reveals her as a woman who is always fashionable and polished. It is entirely reasonable to presume her outer garment that evening matched the hue of her gown.”

  “Was she the only one?”

  André rubbed a thumb along the stubble at his chin. “It’s possible there were others, monsieur. The salon was well-attended. But
Lady Pullington is of similar size to our agent.”

  “How are you planning to handle this?” If Lady Pullington was a member of Society, she could not merely be threatened—or made to disappear.

  “Future communications among our people will be handled with the utmost care. As for Lady Pullington, we’ve set a watch on her. If she mentions the note to anyone, or behaves in any suspicious manner, we’ll know.”

  “I am not a spy,” Bea protested.

  Robert Stewart, Viscount Castlereagh, arched a brow. “Perhaps not one in the official employ of the British government. But you were, in fact, spying. And doing a rather fine job of it.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s all right, Lady Pullington. You are a rather intrepid woman, and I cannot say I’d approve of such risk-taking in general, but you did the right thing in bringing this information here. We are grateful to have it.”

  Bea stiffened at the combination of compliment and chastisement. Darn Elizabeth’s husband for leaving her in here alone.

  Alex and Charity had accompanied her to see the Foreign Secretary. Bea had relayed their story, and Charity had confirmed it, offering up her sketches. As soon as Charity had presented her piece, the duke had escorted her out, saying, “I’ll not take Miss Medford’s involvement in this matter any further.”

  He’d made no such offer to spare Bea—but then, Bea reminded herself as she fidgeted, she had made a point to Alex that she did not answer to him. She could not fault him now for respecting that.

  The viscount looked again at Bea’s now-crumpled note. He frowned. “These men may be working on Napoleon’s behalf,” he mused, “but they are taking direction from someone else. We’ve intercepted many of Napoleon’s communications during previous engagements. Usually, his ciphers are far more complex, mathematical in nature.”

  Bea gave a questioning shrug, unable to offer any insight to a matter where the Foreign Secretary clearly knew more than she.

  “Tell me again how you came by the note,” the viscount requested. “The duke said it was some sort of art salon?”

  “Yes, a salon hosted by Lord Robert and Lady Alicia Wilbourne, in honor of the French artiste Jean Philippe Durand,” Bea confirmed.

  The viscount bent his head as his pen scratched across a sheet of paper. Bea strained to read his scrawl upside down. Lord and Lady Wilbourne. Msr. Jean Philippe Durand. A list of names.

  “Are you going to question them?” Bea asked.

  “No. We don’t want to alert them, yet, to what we know—just in case.” He sat back. “We will watch them. If they are involved, we may gain valuable information as to how they operate—and for whom they work—before we shut them down.”

  Bea couldn’t imagine that her friends the Wilbournes, or Philippe, for that matter, would knowingly engage in such activities. Defending Philippe on such short acquaintance was perhaps a stretch, but loyalty compelled her to at least speak on behalf of the couple. “Lord Castlereagh, it is simply unthinkable to me to hold the Wilbournes under such suspicion.”

  “You may be correct, but we must remain open to all possibilities. Your friends did, after all, take an extended trip to France last year. If nothing else, we know that whoever placed that note had access to the Wilbournes’ cloakroom during the salon.”

  “What about these men?” Bea indicated the sketches Charity had drawn.

  “I’ll deliver the drawings to our intelligence office to see if they match any records of known or suspected foreign agents. We’ll also share the images with our own agents on duty in London. If Miss Medford’s depictions are accurate, there is a reasonable chance we will locate them.”

  “It seems awfully little to go on. And Phili—that is, Monsieur Durand and the Wilbournes—how will you watch them without them knowing?”

  Viscount Castlereagh pressed the tips of his fingers together. “Well, my dear, given your penchant for investigative work, and your unique tie to both the Frenchman and the Wilbournes, it seems you are in the best position to find out what we need to know.”

  Richard almost passed by the disheveled drunk propped against the back wall of the smoky tavern. That is, until he heard the tune the man hummed, barely audible above the clank of glasses and the low rumble of other patrons’ conversation. It was the right tune. One whose revolutionary associations made it an unlikely choice in these parts, unless the man were truly drunk. Or unless he was waiting to speak to Richard.

  Richard slid onto the bench across from the drunk, whose clear eyes and shrewdly assessing look testified to the farce of his appearance. An unfamiliar messenger tonight, but he’d expected that. André Denis had returned to England to monitor the progress of their plan more closely.

  Richard did not ask the new man’s name. He only waved a hand, indicating the messenger should proceed.

  “I have good news, and bad.”

  Richard waited, though not patiently. Rain had driven them indoors this evening, and he was anxious to leave the smoky tavern before he was recognized. Though perhaps his fear of recognition was an unnecessary conceit. Having spent so much of his career in the shadow of those greater than he, the chance of someone knowing his face was slim.

  “Lady Pullington was seen entering the building that houses the British Foreign Office this morning. The good news is, this strongly indicates she was indeed the recipient of the missive that went astray. The man watching her has not been wasting his time.”

  “You mentioned bad news?”

  “If she’s meeting with the Foreign Office, she must have broken the code.”

  Merde. Richard had known it wasn’t the most secure method, but time was of the essence—they’d needed to pass messages quickly, and he’d believed the references vague enough that if a message should fall into the wrong hands, the reader would quickly dismiss it. Of course, Lady Pullington hadn’t exactly stumbled across the note—finding it pinned in her coat would naturally arouse her curiosity. It was just their bad luck she’d been intelligent enough to figure out what she was looking at.

  “Two people accompanied Lady Pullington to the Foreign Office,” the messenger added. “A man—the Duke of Beaufort, we believe—and another young lady.”

  “Their involvement?”

  “No known involvement—though we will continue to monitor the situation. For now, whatever the duke and the young lady know has most likely come from Lady Pullington.”

  “I see. How much does she know?” Richard asked. If the lady was savvy enough to decipher their message, and take it to the British government, they could not afford to discount her as a threat.

  “I cannot say for sure.”

  “We need to find out.”

  “Of course.”

  “Bea, you simply must tell me what happened with the Foreign Secretary,” Charity pled.

  She and Elizabeth were having tea at Bea’s home. The moment Elizabeth had excused herself to make use of the retiring room, Charity had seized the opportunity, rounding on Bea with the zeal of a cat about to sink its claws into juicy prey.

  “Alex wouldn’t say a word after pulling me from the room,” Charity complained. “My family’s inclination to protect me like a child means I am always left out of the choicest bits of intrigue.” She blew a stray strand of hair from her face. “It is ever so aggravating.”

  As tempting as it was to confide in someone, Bea knew the duke had removed his headstrong young sister-in-law from that meeting for a reason. “In truth, you heard most of it, Charity. After all, you were at both the salon and the gardens with me. Viscount Castlereagh asked me to go over the details once more, took a few additional notes, and that was it.”

  Charity cocked her head. “He didn’t share his thoughts with you? What did he think those men were after? Did he mention any names?” she prompted.

  “You are incorrigible.” She really ought to be more disapproving of Charity’s antics. But the younger woman’s enthusiasm was so infectious, Bea found herself laughing alongside her. “I suppo
se you already know that. No, he did not reveal any suspicions—if anything, I think he wanted to gather more information before acting. He did ask that if we think of any missed detail, or happen upon any other relevant information, we report it immediately. Beyond that, the matter is now in capable hands.” There. What she’d said was true—she just didn’t need to tell Charity that those “capable hands” included her own.

  But Charity was not dissuaded. A thoughtful gleam lit her eye. “And where do you think we might ‘happen upon any other relevant information?’ Any ideas?”

  Bea rolled her eyes. “No. Alex would have both our heads if we thought to pull another stunt like last week’s. Charity, it’s the middle of the Season. Why aren’t you off with your friends, chattering about fashion plates and eligible bachelors?”

  “Why aren’t you?” Charity shot back. “You are just as eligible as I.” She shrugged. “I do enjoy balls and such, though they promise little more than an evening’s entertainment. You and Elizabeth, though, lead much more interesting lives.”

  “You are too fanciful,” Bea protested. “You’ve known me for years. When, before these last two weeks, have you ever thought my life interesting?”

  “Hmm.” Charity appeared to give the matter consideration. “Lady Beatrice Pullington, respected member of the ton, a young widow who lives quietly—if unusually—alone. It is true I would not have looked beyond that until recently. But now that I have, Bea, I’m beginning to think you had us all fooled.”

  “Fanciful,” Bea repeated, though she couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll be returning to Montgrave soon, to pose for Monsieur Durand. Do us all a favor while I’m gone, Charity, please? Don’t go looking for further trouble.”

  Bea’s fingers trembled as she clasped a sapphire necklace around her throat. Maeve had pinned her hair into a mass of curls at the crown of her head, leaving her neck and décolletage exposed by the low cut of her deep blue silk gown. Silver embroidery sparkled in a band just below her bosom, and again at the gown’s hem.