Nothing But Deception

by Allegra Gray

  Ah, well. If he ever found a freckled subject who intrigued him, he would rise to the challenge. But for now, he had the pleasure of painting Bea’s creamy complexion, enviably smooth and oh-so lovely when her cheeks betrayed her emotions with that telltale pink flush.

  Finally Bea emerged from the study. “I am sorry to have kept you both waiting,” she said politely. “One quick word with the butler, and I shall be ready to proceed to the woods.”

  Her tone seemed unusually formal. Minutes later, as the trio traipsed toward the abandoned rose garden, Bea walked with her head bent forward, her brows knit together. She seemed withdrawn, barely responding to the animated chatter of her companion, or his own comments about the work he had planned for the day.

  Adding this to the way she’d dismissed him in the study when he’d interrupted, and Philippe was discomfited. Did Bea regret their lovemaking? God, he hoped not—but women were often unpredictable about such things. The past couple afternoons had been, for him at least, a paradise of art and passion. He’d managed to get her alone a second time, though only briefly. Each taste of his beautiful English muse had but whet his appetite.

  He wanted more, and he also wanted Bea to feel the same toward him. Whatever was bothering her, he would go to any length necessary to see it resolved. And then he would get her alone again.

  When they reached the clearing, Bea and her companion scurried deeper into the woods, arms laden with the rose silk. Yesterday, when Mrs. Moffett had first helped Bea into the translucent costume, she’d not batted an eye at the impropriety. In fact, she’d made a rapturous comparison to the ancient Greek statues a former employer had collected. An apt comparison, if not entirely expected. But Philippe wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Lily Moffett was an ideal companion for Beatrice during this venture at Montgrave.

  Philippe set up his easel and began mixing pigment, all the while trying not to think about Bea’s naked body, the whisper of silk over a dusky nipple…it was no use. He’d grown hard at the first stray image that had filtered into his thoughts. The curse of a vivid imagination—he could see her smooth skin as though she already stood before him. He shifted on the stool behind his easel, then blew out an exasperated breath and stood to take a walk.

  It would never do for Bea and Lily—experienced women, both—to return to the clearing and find him in such an obvious state of arousal.

  He returned a few minutes later to see Bea sitting demurely on the garden bench—as demurely, at any rate, as it was possible to be when one was clad in fabric designed to be even more alluring than actual nakedness. One look at her sent a jolt straight to his groin.

  Thankfully, Philippe was, as he’d promised, an artist, first and foremost. Not that it was easy to drag his mind away from the thought of unwrapping her like a treasured gift, but he did want to paint her. Very much.

  Mrs. Moffett sat nearby, her face serenely tilted upward, toward the sun dappling through the leaves, as though it was nothing out of the ordinary for a paid companion to assist her employer into a situation any other person would surely deem compromising.

  “Je suis enchanté,” Philippe declared as he strode back into the clearing.

  Bea started and stood, the silk slipping precariously. “This is how we arranged it before, right?” she asked, grasping anxiously at the material.

  Philippe chuckled. “Oui, chérie. Just so. Shall we?” He waved an arm toward the basin, and Bea adopted the pose they’d both become so familiar with.

  Philippe settled back behind his easel, and quickly fell into the absorbing process of creation. Time slipped by unnoticed. If he could not worship her with his body at this moment, he could do so with his brush.

  “Why did you choose to come to England now?”

  “Pardon?” He shook his head to clear it. Bea’s pose had her standing with one outstretched hand grazing the new leaves on a branch. He’d been concentrating on getting just the right angle, the right softness of touch, to replicate her pose.

  He’d chosen to work on that particularly difficult piece of the painting today, because the intense concentration required kept him from focusing on other things…like the curve of her breast, the way the silk draped and fell, exposing one white shoulder he longed to touch.

  Unfortunately, that same intense concentration had rendered him deaf to her question.

  Bea repeated herself, explaining, “Your work has steadily gained in popularity these past several years, yet your travels have never before included England. Why now?”

  “Ah.” Philippe set down his brush and flashed the wide smile he knew had helped garner the popularity she spoke of. “You are correct. But only because I did not realize England held such fine beauty. I was told stories of gray moors, and weather-beaten old fishwives. Had someone told me instead of lovely ladies and mysterious gardens grown wild, I should have rushed across the Channel much earlier. Happily, I made the discovery anyway.”

  When his lighthearted answer failed to elicit a similar response from Bea, he sobered. “Actually,” he told her, “I traveled mostly to cities known as great centers for the arts. London only came into my plans recently. My mother, just before passing from this world, expressed…a fondness for certain English things. She had traveled here in her youth, and thought I might benefit from doing the same. I came here to fulfill her wish, but I had not planned to stay long. That is, until I saw you.”

  It was as close to the truth as he could relay, especially with Lily Moffett sitting nearby. Not that he feared judgment—if her laissez-faire attitude toward safeguarding her employer’s reputation were any indication, Bea’s companion was not one to be judgmental.

  No, it was her discretion that concerned him. Lily, he guessed, did not have a malicious bone in her body—but a careless one? Probably several. And careless words quickly became oft-repeated rumors. Philippe did not need half of England speculating about his dead mother’s affairs, or whether he’d been illegitimately conceived by one of England’s own nobles.

  Bea seemed to accept his answer, and they lapsed once more into thoughtful silence. Philippe resumed painting, but with the disconcerting awareness that although his muse stood physically before him, her mind seemed thousands of miles away.

  She noticed the smell first. When Charity awoke, she was in a place that smelled damp, and vaguely of fish. She guessed they were near the river.

  Next, she noticed the cramps. God, how had she ended up in this uncomfortable position? She moved to stretch—and that was when she realized her wrists were bound. No wonder she was so miserable. She opened her mouth to scream for help—then stopped. The low murmur of voices indicated the presence of her captors. They would hear her long before a rescuer. Somehow, she doubted this was a place frequented by knights in shining armor.

  As she came fully awake, the memories assaulted her. The storeroom at the Wilbournes’, where the footman-spy had discovered her. She’d fought against him, but he’d cut off her breath until she went limp. He’d bound her wrists and gagged her, then left her to sit in the dark while he continued his farce as a loyal footman.

  She couldn’t say how long she’d remained there before he’d snuck her from the house and into a waiting vehicle. Not too long, she thought—it had still been daylight. Upon arrival at their current location, she’d been semi-conscious. He’d half-dragged her inside as she struggled to keep her feet.

  Another man had opened the door, sworn when he saw her.

  “What the hell? I summoned you—not you and a wench.”

  “Not just any wench. Caught her spying,” the footman had grunted.

  She’d been dumped in the corner where she lay now. Someone had held a foul liquid to her lips, pinched her nose until she’d swallowed. Then, nothing—until now.

  Charity forced herself to remain calm in spite of the panic that threatened to rise in her chest and cut off her breath. She’d been so anxious to prove her worth that she’d acted foolishly, recklessly—and it had gotten
her caught. She couldn’t afford to lose her head again. Would they kill her? Not if she could convince them she was too important to risk killing—but how would she do that, when they would discover all too soon how unimportant she was?

  Wait. Maybe the same foolishness that had landed her here could get her out. If her captors discovered her to be a vapid henwit, they’d have no reason to deem her a threat. Charity breathed easier. Maybe they’d let her go—or at least relax the guard enough for her to escape.

  First, she had to figure out how to undo these ties.

  Her captors didn’t seem to realize she was awake. There were three of them now—at first there had only been two. Peters, the footman who’d brought her here, and the one who’d let him in. She did not know his name. He was quiet, his appearance menacing. Thickly built, his forearms looked capable of snapping the bones of anyone who crossed him. Not that many would dare—the others clearly deferred to him. He kept a cigar clamped on one side of his mouth. When he’d spoken, she’d seen that it rested in a gap where several teeth were missing.

  The third man must have arrived later, while she was unconscious. Charity didn’t dare keep her eyes open longer than a quick peep—but that was enough. She recognized the third spy immediately. She’d seen him before at Vauxhall.

  She heard a rustle of paper, then the scrape of chairs. When next she peeked, the three men were clustered around a small table across the room, heads bent to the light of a single lamp as they conversed in rapid French. The man with the cigar pointed to something on a paper that lay between them, muttering a few words that sounded even more foreign than French. Italian, perhaps? She was in way over her head.

  The contents of her reticule lay spilled upon the table. They must have taken it while she was unconscious. Fortunately, she didn’t think it contained anything they could use against her.

  Cigar man scrubbed a hand across his chin. “Is Rose in place? The hour grows near.”

  That was easy enough to understand, as was the third spy’s response: “Oui.”

  For the next few minutes, Charity caught only snatches…“Lady spy will soon know…her message”…“Tonight. Only one chance”…“Castlereagh”…“Kettridge must flee.”

  Oh, why hadn’t she studied harder in school? What were they talking about? Kettridge. She knew that name…it had been in Bea’s letter. How much of this did Bea know? Was she the “lady spy” they referred to—and most importantly, was she in danger, too?

  Charity kept her body still, straining her ears and mind to make sense of the words. But by the time her brain could translate one person’s words and form an idea of what their vague references meant, she was several sentences behind in the mental chase.

  That is, until one person spoke a name that stopped her cold. “Monsieur Durand.”

  She didn’t realize she’d gasped—until the men at the table turned to face her.

  “I see our little piece of fluff is awake,” Peters said with a smile that gave her chills. He’d switched to English, for her benefit, Charity was sure, though she didn’t waste energy taking offense at the slur to her character.

  Now that they knew she was awake, there was no sense pretending. Charity pushed up awkwardly to a sitting position and looked around, blinking. “Where am I?”

  “Somewhere you cannot cause trouble,” the man she’d pegged as the crew’s leader told her.

  Charity shrank deeper into the corner. What had they been about to say concerning Monsieur Durand? She wasn’t likely to find out, because their attention was now focused in the last place she wanted it—on her.

  “What should we do with her?” the third one asked.

  Peters indicated their boss. “He said a yellow-haired woman went with the lady spy to see Castlereagh.”

  “Just so,” Cigar man acknowledged. “But better make sure she’s the right one.”

  The two lesser spies hauled Charity to her feet and escorted her to the last empty chair at the table. When she hesitated, Peters gave her a shove. She sat.

  All right. She had to remain calm. Keep her head. She couldn’t let them see how scared she was. But never in Charity’s life had she been alone with three men—no mother, sister, chaperone, or even a maid. Let alone with three strange men who bore her definite ill will.

  Cigar man led the questioning. He opened with the same question Peters had asked when he’d discovered her lurking in the Wilbournes’ storeroom. “Are you acquainted with Lady Pullington?”

  Charity tapped a finger on her chin. “Lady Pullington…oh. Oh, yes! Yes, of course. I have so very many friends, you see,” she explained eagerly, “it becomes rather cumbersome at times to remember them all.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll remember something more specific: a visit with Lady Pullington to the British Foreign Secretary’s office?”

  She couldn’t deny it—they already knew she’d been there. “Why, yes,” she said. “Oh, and what a wonderful adventure that was. Of course, the duke and Lady Pullington would not allow me to actually sit in on the meeting, yet it was ever so fascinating to visit the offices of such important people. And so many officers in uniform,” she prattled on. “I do love a man in uniform.” She sighed.

  The incredulous stares of her captors told her the act was working. Thank heavens Miss Kettridge was not here to call her on what she would surely recognize as a performance.

  “Did they tell you the purpose of their meeting?”

  Charity frowned. “Dear me. I seem to remember something…was it the duke? Or possibly Lady Pullington and…oh, yes,” she finished triumphantly, “I do recall. The meeting was about politics.”

  The leader’s lips pulled back, revealing smoke-browned teeth. It was difficult to say whether the facial movement constituted a smirk or a grimace.

  “I will ask you an easier question,” he said. “What is your name?”

  She was amazed he didn’t already know. Or maybe he did, and he was testing her. She didn’t dare let him catch her in a lie. “Why, my name is Charity Medford, daughter of the late Baron Medford.”

  “Aristos,” the third man muttered with a sneer.

  A sharp look from Cigar man shut him up, but Charity made a mental note to be more careful in any mention of nobility. Clearly that was a sore spot for the Frenchman—understandable, given the terrors of the Revolution. The spy who’d spoken reminded her more of a dockworker than a displaced nobleman, but one never knew.

  “Tell me, Miss Medford,” her interrogator said, his tone darkening with implied threat, “if you are the innocent miss you would have us believe, why exactly were you hiding where Peters here found you?”

  “Oh.” She’d known this was coming. “It’s rather embarrassing, really.” She lowered her lashes and studied her cuticles, trying to summon a blush—no doubt successfully, given the pounding of her heart. “You see, I lost a bet.” She held up a hand. “I know, I know, it is terribly unladylike to gamble, and my mother would have my head if she found out, but the other girls were…oh, anyway, the forfeit was, there is a…a hem…rather strapping footman who works for Lord Wilbourne—all the girls sigh over him, though, of course, he is entirely off limits—and I was to attempt to kiss him and return with a token to prove I’d done it. Unfortunately, I could not find the man, and thought perhaps I could in-vent some sort of token and avoid having to go back, for it was all so very much trouble…”

  “You are a fool,” the third man told her. “Do you not have a brother or even a cousin from whom you might have garnered your token? That’s what any other female would have done—but you actually took your forfeit seriously?”

  “In retrospect, it was a foolish decision,” she agreed. “Of course, I had no idea it would lead to such trouble. Please, sir, I’ve nothing to give you. Mightn’t you let me go?” Please, please, please, she prayed.

  “Too risky.”

  A sharp rap at the door kept them from discussing the matter further. Hope flared in Charity’s chest. Please, she prayed aga
in, let it be someone looking to rescue her.

  But the person outside the door began humming. A man’s voice. The tune seemed vaguely familiar, but he stopped after a few bars.

  Cigar man had moved toward the door, and when the humming stopped, he picked it up, completing the phrase or verse. He cracked open the door and slipped through it. Charity could catch no glimpse of the person on the other side. It didn’t matter, she thought, heart sinking. The humming ritual was clearly some sort of password—not anything her fantasy rescuer would know.

  The walls were too thick for her to hear anything else outside the door, assuming the men were still there.

  Her remaining captors said nothing about their leader’s sudden exit. One leaned forward, playing with a small knife, while the other slouched, eyes drooping nearly shut.

  Minutes passed. Charity shifted uncomfortably, staring down at the ugly red welts popping up beneath the leather cord binding her wrists. By now, her family must know she’d gone missing. Someone would come for her. She just had to last long enough for them to find her.

  The door creaked, and Cigar man returned, alone. “Time to go.”

  The other spies jumped up. “What do we do with her?” The third one jerked a thumb toward Charity.

  Cigar man glanced at a pocket watch. “Merde. We should already have departed. Leave her. We act now.”

  Charity stood slowly, trying not to panic. What now? If they left her, could she safely find her way home? Was there anyone else out there—a guard, maybe—who would stop her?

  Peters shuffled toward the door, but his companion hesitated, glancing at Charity.

  “You want me to…?” The spy made a motion that resembled the slicing of a throat.

  Charity took an involuntary step backward, tripping over her chair and hitting the ground as true fear seized her.

  She scrambled back up, just as Cigar man answered, “Not yet.” He looked at her, gave a short laugh at her obvious distress. “I am not certain our little captive is as addlepated as she wishes us to think. If all goes well tonight, we shall not return. If not, she may prove of further use. So for now, just store her somewhere…quiet.” He left, Peters at his heels.