by Allegra Gray
Chapter 17
When Philippe returned to his hotel lodgings in the wee hours of the morning, he was infinitely grateful that the social practices of London’s ton routinely involved late-night partying during the Season. The manager didn’t blink an eye; he simply handed Philippe the mail that had accumulated during his absence.
Philippe glanced through it absentmindedly on his way upstairs, registering another letter from Lord Owen. He set that one aside. He’d respond in the morning. First, he needed sleep.
But as it turned out, responding to Lord Owen’s letter was unnecessary, because the man himself called on Philippe at the earliest decent hour the following day.
He showed his father into the sitting area of his suite, each man eyeing the other awkwardly. After all, Philippe realized, their only previous meeting had been, for lack of a better term, intense.
But Lord Owen cleared his throat and straightened his spine. “Though I cannot atone for the mistakes of my past, I can, at least, stop perpetuating them. Philippe, you are my family, however unconventional. There is a home for you here in London. My home.”
Though he might be uncomfortable, the older man was clearly sincere. A warm smile accompanied Philippe’s reply. “I did receive your kind letter of invitation. I apologize for my lack of response. I have only just returned to London, and the past days have been…busy.”
Lord Owen chuckled. “Ah, yes. The woman who has captured your interest.”
That, and a good deal more. “Indeed. I have promised to call on her today.” Already he was anxious to see Bea again. He also suspected the aftermath of yesterday’s events was not yet over. There would be questions to answer.
“I shan’t keep you long, my boy,” Lord Owen said. “It seemed foolish to continue to write when you are so close—and I admit, my heart desired to confirm that my aging eyes had not deceived me, nor my aging mind invented you. And I am satisfied.” He smiled. “You are my son.”
Philippe swallowed, an unfamiliar ache in his throat.
“I have taken the liberty of having a suite readied for you,” Henry Owen continued. “And of having a studio installed. I believe you will find the space, and the light, far superior to what you have here.”
Philippe swallowed again. This man who barely knew him had accepted him as family, had gone to great lengths to accommodate his artistic needs, while the man who’d actually raised him had merely tolerated those needs. He’d already planned to accept Owen’s written offer. Now it was clear he was being offered so much more than space and light.
His father must have mistaken Philippe’s silence for dissent, for he said, “But perhaps I presume too much?” He rubbed a thumb across the knuckles of his opposite hand as though they ached. “You could be angry with me for the way I treated your mother.”
The emotion clogging Philippe’s throat broke free. “No, I am not angry. To dwell on the past would only rob us of the future, and I do not believe that is what my maman hoped to accomplish in sending me to you. I would be honored to stay in your home.”
Bea blew dry the ink on the line of script she’d just written, then set the quill down, fingers trembling. It was some of her best work. She could feel that. But she was terrified to share it. Spying for her government might have placed her in physical danger, but that was nothing compared to the danger of the possibility that her creative work, her very soul, might face rejection.
These past weeks she’d discovered passion—first through Philippe’s art, and later in his arms. Living with anything less was no longer an option.
He’d described her as his muse—flattering, to be sure—but Bea needed him to see her for what she was, to see that she held a creative spirit of her own, even if her work was not renowned across the Continent the way his was.
But she’d never before written a poem for a man, nor felt such intense trepidation, such need, for that man to approve.
She folded the paper and sealed it neatly. She had to find just the right way to give it to him.
Unfortunately, instructions from Lord Castlereagh arrived shortly before Philippe.
“I would invite you to sit, but I am afraid we must proceed immediately to Lord Bainbridge’s home,” she told her lover when the butler ushered him in. “The British Foreign Secretary has been apprised of yesterday’s events, and he desires each of us to provide our own accounting. He awaits us at Alex and Elizabeth’s house.”
“Naturellement. That is to be expected. Though,” Philippe grinned, “I hope this official of yours does not wish an accounting of all of yesterday’s events.”
She laughed at his suggestive tone and swatted him. “Only the relevant ones.”
He swept her a gallant bow. “In that case, my lady, may I have the honor of escorting you to the duke’s residence?”
He was back to being the high-spirited showman who’d so dazzled her in the beginning. Courageous and loyal, gallant and charming…how could she not love this man?
Bea tucked her poem into her reticule and offered Philippe her arm, eagerly anticipating the moment Lord Castlereigh’s business was finished and she could present the poem that would show Philippe not only that she shared his creative passion, but also how much he meant to her.
Upon arrival, Bea and Philippe were shown to the formal salon of the Bainbridges’ home, where they found Elizabeth sitting alone. She looked more exhausted than usual, even, Bea thought, considering that her friend’s expectant state often left her tired.
Elizabeth greeted them both, clasping Bea in a quick hug. “I’m so glad you and Charity are both safe. She’s resting now. Poor dear. She seems so strong, but it took her a good while to settle into a peaceful sleep.”
Ah. That explained it. “I thought Lord Castlereagh wished to speak with us?” Bea asked.
“He does. He had just finished with Charity when one of his men arrived. They are cloistered, along with Alex, in the study.”
“You should be resting, too,” Bea suggested to her friend.
“I will. I’ll feel better knowing this ordeal is over.”
The door opened, and the duke and the Foreign Secretary entered.
“Lady Pullington. Monsieur Durand,” Lord Castlereagh acknowledged them. “Thank you for your prompt appearance.” He paused, glanced at Alex, and then at Philippe. “I hope you will not take offence, Monsieur Durand, but as your role in this is, as yet, unclear to me, I must ask you to step out of the room a moment until I can speak with you one-on-one and, ideally, clear up the matter.”
Philippe frowned.
“Monsieur Durand has proven he deserves—” Bea began indignantly, but a raised hand from Lord Castlereagh silenced her.
“It is merely a precaution. I understand he helped rescue Miss Medford, for which we are most grateful. However, in my work we make a practice always to separate the participants in an event. By listening to their separate accountings, we not only ensure the stories match, but we often identify details one party may have forgotten, or misinterpreted. And by piecing together the separate threads, we form a more complete understanding of what happened.”
“A reasonable explanation,” Philippe acknowledged. He gave a bow and stepped out.
“Lady Pullington,” the Secretary continued, “I have already heard from each of the Bainbridges, and Miss Medford, and would like next to speak with you. Before we do, though, I can tell you ladies what the duke already knows: we have received good news on two fronts. First, your friends, Lord and Lady Wilbourne, have been—for the time being, at least—cleared of any misdoings. There is no evidence that anyone outside of the one servant was involved in feeding information to our enemies.”
“Well, of course, Alicia Wilbourne wouldn’t do such a thing,” Elizabeth said. “And the other news?”
“We have captured the servant who did, and one of his companions.”
Bea clasped her hands together. “That is good news. But there were more than two. The others?”
“Unfortunat
ely, they remain at large, though we hope interrogations of the two in custody will lead to their whereabouts.” He glanced from Alex to Elizabeth. “Lady Bainbridge, when your sister has rested, I will need her to identify one of the detainees. The servant. The second is Rose Kettridge, the actress. As a publicly known figure, there is no need to confirm her identity, only the extent of her role in this plot.”
“I will act as Miss Medford’s escort to wherever these people are being held,” Alex said.
“Very good. For now, we have them at a private residence—actually, semiprivate. It is used by my agents for a number of purposes, and is well equipped and less apt to draw attention than an actual prison. Of course, should they stand trial, they will have to be moved.” Lord Castlereagh gave them the address. “And now, Lady Pullington, if you’d be so kind as to come with me to the study? Oh, and Your Grace, if you wish to invite Monsieur Durand back in, please do. Just keep the discussion focused on other topics.”
Bea followed the government official into the duke’s study. She felt her role in Charity’s disappearance and rescue had been limited at best, but Lord Castlereagh made her go over each action, beginning with the arrival of his own messenger to Montgrave, multiple times. Finally he seemed satisfied.
Bea still had a question of her own—one that had been bothering her since yesterday. “About the loss of the plans…Britain is not terribly endangered?” she asked. If she’d paid more attention to spying and less to falling in love, perhaps things would never have gotten so out of hand.
Lord Castlereagh smiled gently. “No, my dear. Our armies have adjusted accordingly. And, to be honest, even if they had not, I truly believe the outcome of this war is already decided. Napoleon Bonaparte cannot win. He is outnumbered, and the will of many nations is against him. France’s troops have rallied to his cause, it is true, but trained soldiers are in limited supply in that country—as are young men of an age to fight.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“I think we are done here.” He stood, and the two returned to the salon. “Do not fear, Lady Pullington. This is the last gasp of an overzealous ruler who cannot admit he is already defeated. Britain, and the coalition, will triumph, and peace will come once again to the Continent.”
Across the room, the duke nodded his agreement. A sense of calm stole over Bea—the first in many days. “I pray it is so,” she said. “We could all use some peace.”
When Philippe had also been questioned to Lord Castlereagh’s satisfaction, he and Bea took their leave of the Bainbridges once more. Bea relaxed in the vehicle, nearly giddy with relief. Now that Castlereagh knew Philippe’s only role in the French plot had been to help find Charity, the guilt that had torn her over her feelings toward him had been lifted.
“Shall we try this again?” Philippe teased as the coach deposited them in front of Bea’s home. “I had hoped to call on you for social purposes this morning, and while I enjoy your company in any situation, being interrogated by government officials was not entirely what I’d envisioned.”
“Oh, my.” Bea matched his flirtatious tone and fluttered her lashes. “I am destitute at the thought of having disappointed you. Please, do come in and I shall make amends.”
Inside, Bea signaled a footman for refreshments, then closed the drapes of the formal salon, shutting out the view of the black carriage that had followed them from the duke’s home. Protection. A reminder that, although everyone in their little party was home safe now, the danger had not entirely passed. The feeling of giddiness faded.
Philippe stood behind and to her side. “It is only a precaution.”
“I know.” Lord Castlereagh, Alex, and Philippe had agreed unanimously that none of the women were going anywhere for the foreseeable future without guards—especially since, as she’d learned while Philippe was closeted with the British Foreign Secretary, at least one person had already been killed as a result of this plot. The duke’s staff at Montgrave had found the body of Reilly, the first messenger she’d entrusted, deep within the woods.
The guards were a necessity. And knowing that made her uncomfortable.
Philippe touched a hand to the small of her back.
“I want to believe it is over,” Bea told him.
“But?”
She could only shake her head. The papers were gone, and two spies caught. But their leader, and the rogue French ruler they supported, were still at large.
“Pray tell me your government has not asked more of you.”
“They have not.”
“And you, ma belle?” The gentle pressure of his hand on her back turned her toward him. “You are not going to go looking for trouble?”
Bea shivered at the echo of the warning she’d issued to Charity. Could she heed her own advice?
Philippe looked at her a long moment, then his lips quirked in a smile. He indicated the closed drapes. “Enough. When shall we return to more pleasurable pursuits?”
She looked up, mouth open in surprise, and he laughed. “No, chérie, I meant only,” he nodded to the drapes again, “let us put them from our minds. I am eager to return to painting, or at the very least, a pleasant and witty conversation. Though,” he mused, his voice dropping to a husky murmur as he used one finger to trace the line of her cheek, her throat, “if there were other pleasures my lady wished to return to, I am, as always, utterly at her service.”
It was an offer she couldn’t resist. She leaned in and his lips brushed hers. The kiss lingered, and she sank willingly into the sensual warmth.
“Mmm,” she breathed.
He kissed her temple, then bit gently at her earlobe. “We probably shouldn’t make a habit of this,” he whispered.
“Hmm?” Bea was having a hard time thinking straight. “Of kissing?”
The corners of his blue eyes crinkled in amusement. “I was thinking of what happened the last time we began kissing in this room.”
A discrete tap on the door spared Bea from having to respond. They sprang apart as a footman entered, and Bea turned away to hide her flaming cheeks. The servant placed a tray of refreshments on the side table and, just as discretely, left.
In the interruption, Bea remembered the poem she’d written for Philippe.
She moved toward the tray and poured his coffee—the French kind she’d ordered specially for him. She recalled the feeling of worldliness when she’d placed the order earlier that morning, a confident woman making plans for her lover. If only she could summon that confidence now.
“I have something for you.”
He was already eyeing the tray. “Sandwiches, and coffee, it appears.”
“No, silly. Well, yes. And something else.”
She tried to still her trembling fingers as she set the cup on a saucer. Next to it, she placed the folded paper containing her poem.
The scent of the coffee, dark and intense, filled her nostrils as she offered the beverage to him.
He picked up the paper, a bemused smile on his face. “What is this?”
“It’s for you,” she said softly, her heart hammering so loudly she could barely hear her own words.
He slit open the seal and unfolded it. Bea knew the moment he recognized it as a poem, for his gaze took on that contemplative intensity she’d come to know so well. He leaned against the mantel as he read—a casual pose. The morning sunlight slanted through the windows, highlighting his chiseled features. Dear Lord, he was handsome.
Bea forced herself to breathe as she waited. He didn’t rush through the poem—she liked that. But his face gave away no other expression than absorption.
Finally he looked up. “This is incredible. Thank you for sharing it with me. Where did you find it?”
Disappointment pierced her heart. He hadn’t recognized it as inherently hers. But why would he? She’d never given him reason to think of her that way.
She shook her head slightly, wet her lips. “It’s mine. I wrote it this morning, though the idea has been tumbling about my brai
n for somewhat longer. I wrote it for you.” Her heart’s hammering grew wilder.
His blue eyes grew dark. “Yours?” He returned his gaze to the paper.
Seconds ticked by endlessly. Bea twisted her hands in her skirt, not caring that it would cause wrinkles.
Slowly he nodded. “Oui. Of course, this is yours.” The hand holding the paper fell to his side and he gazed at her as though seeing her for the first time. “You did not tell me you are a poet.”
“I…it’s not something I share often,” she said, her worry growing. He’d called her poem “incredible.” But something was still wrong. Why was it her poems were only well-received when no one knew it was she who’d written them?
“Well, Beatrice, I thank you for sharing it with me. You’re very talented.” He refolded the paper. “I’ve an appointment this morning, I only just remembered. Lord Henry Owen has graciously opened his home to me, including a studio in which to paint. We are to meet today, and so I must be on my way.”
He stepped forward, cupped her shoulders lightly, and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead.
He never kissed her like that.
Bea’s chest hurt. What had she done wrong? His withdrawal was so obvious it was nearly palpable.
She was frozen, speechless, as he stepped back and gave her the lavish showman’s bow and grin that usually made her giggle. “I shall be in touch.”
Seconds later, he was gone. With him went the folded paper, its creases a match for the fissures forming and cracking apart her heart.
Chapter 18
“Beatrice, think of your family, your sisters.”
Bea had been dreading this conversation from the moment she’d picked up the morning gossip sheet and discovered:
“Lady P was observed alighting from a coach in front of her home with a certain monsieur—normally not an event worthy of report, except in this instance, the hour was shortly before noon. One wonders from whence the couple was returning at such an unusual hour? Intriguingly, a second coach followed them, from which no one at all emerged. This author is no expert on matters of the heart, but our monsieur is of a known amorous nature, and it appears that the lovely Lady P has captured his attention, even beyond the confines of the studio.”
