by Allegra Gray
The answer was painfully clear. He met her gaze. “My father.”
“Yes. Stepfather, that is,” Bea amended.
“Ah. You know who Lord Owen is to me, then?”
“Yes. And that your stepfather acted as an advisor to Bonaparte.”
Philippe nodded. “Oui. They served in the army together, and later my father—stepfather—worked for him.” That was public knowledge. It still felt strange to refer to the man he’d grown up with as someone besides his father.
“Does he serve him still?”
Philippe frowned. “To my knowledge, no. At least not openly. A Frenchman who is too vocal, too forthcoming with allegiance to one ruler, is a Frenchman who does not live to old age. Though with Bonaparte’s return…I can only speculate. I left Paris for England shortly after he reclaimed the empire. As to my father’s actions since then, I cannot say.”
“Some reports suggest he hoped to rise to the Chamber of Deputies under Louis XVIII.”
“Perhaps I should have paid closer attention to my father’s—to Richard’s, that is—dealings. I confess I never took an interest in politics.”
“If I may be so bold, it is time that you did.”
Philippe accepted the chastisement with a wry chuckle. His English rose had a point, and bristling over it would get them nowhere. “Undoubtedly.”
He paused. “Though I greatly desire my freedom, I’ve no wish to become a traitor to my country.”
Bea nodded, oddly businesslike. “I can respect that, but your position is precarious. You must ask yourself—where do your loyalties truly lie?”
“Though I have recently gained certain familial ties to Britain, and an admiration for certain of its ladies, I remain a citizen of France. It is where I was raised.”
His flattery earned him a small smile, but Bea pressed on. “But to which French leader does your allegiance belong?”
Ah. A question not so simple. “One that will bring peace to my country.”
“Napoleon Bonaparte will never do that.”
“You are likely correct,” Philippe admitted.
“The Congress of Vienna has declared Bonaparte an outlaw. Though he may call himself Emperor, he rules illegally. If you are able to provide information that aids in his defeat, you will not be a traitor to France. If anything, you may help bring the peace you so desire.”
“Are you here to save me, beautiful one, or England?”
“England does not need saving,” she replied proudly. “I am here to see that the right man is brought to justice for crimes against my country and against my dear friend Charity, and I pray—I know—that man is not you.”
Her faith in him was humbling. “I could not understand why those spies would direct you to me,” he said, “unless they were merely trying to throw you off the trail by naming a Frenchman of some standing who was known to be in your country. Now, I fear their intent was not to lead to the wrong conclusion—only to the wrong Durand. That song was a favorite of my stepfather’s not only because of its sentiment, but because the King, Richard the Lionheart, shared the same given name with him. It is, I believe, of Richard Durand that the French spy sings.” Each word felt like the stab of a knife in his back. They hadn’t been close, but he’d believed the man was his father for most of his life. Now it appeared Richard’s ambition outweighed that family tie.
The studio fell quiet as they both thought this over.
Finally Bea crossed the distance to him and took his hand. The light touch wasn’t enough—it served as a reminder of so much more—but it was more than he deserved. He stroked the inside of her palm, tracing a slow circle with his thumb, and watched her take a shuddery breath. As confused and complicated as matters were, that breath told him what he needed to know. She still held feelings for him. He held that thought like a candle in the dark.
How could a man be so ruthless?
“Philippe,” Bea requested softly, “tell me how to find him.”
Philippe’s gaze tracked the swish of Bea’s skirts as she turned the corner and disappeared. He’d given her all the information she’d asked for, and a good deal more. Addresses, acquaintances, detailed sketches, all produced while the bitter taste of betrayal stung his throat.
The coalition could take down Napoleon Bonaparte. It was up to Philippe to take down his stepfather. For justice. For love. For the good of France.
As for the lovely Lady Pullington, he could only speculate as to what she would do next. Amazing. Her selfless desire to help others, he admired. But her utter disregard for her own reputation and safety was going to drive him crazy.
Not that he wasn’t grateful—her efforts on his behalf gave him more hope than he’d felt in days. He just feared that, once his name was cleared, whatever worthy cause Bea took up next would be the one that got her killed.
And so Philippe came to a conclusion he suspected had been inevitable from the first moment he’d laid eyes on Beatrice Pullington. There was only one way to protect that woman from herself. He was going to have to marry her.
She’d done all she could. Every scrap of information was now in the capable hands of the British government, who would, God willing, use it for the greater good. And for the freedom, in particular, of one Monsieur Jean Philippe Durand.
“Don’t judge him too harshly,” Lord Owen had begged of her when she departed his home on her last visit with Philippe. “In the past months, he has learned his father is not the man he always thought he was, and that was the lesser of the secrets his mother kept from him. Did Philippe tell you he spent his whole life trying to emulate an elusive French artiste by the name of Henri Gaudet? Not even on her deathbed did Solange tell him she was Gaudet—she left that revelation to me. And now, after years of popularity in most cultural circles of Europe, Philippe has traded popularity and admiration for notoriety and suspicion. His foundations have been shaken. How can he know in what, or in whom, to trust?”
“He can trust me,” she’d told Lord Owen simply. Though the older man had assured her Philippe was in no way being mistreated, he’d looked different. Older, as though each day of captivity had added a year to his age. And although he’d still been impeccably dressed, his usual confident charm had been subdued. How dare they take that from him?
Philippe might not love her, but Bea knew with a clear conscience she’d done her best by him—without compromise. She’d been loyal to her country, and to the man she loved.
But that loyalty had come with a cost, and all Bea wanted now was to get out of London before she suffocated in the thick fog of disapproving, mistrustful glances that surrounded her everywhere she went.
When Lord Pullington had died, he’d left Bea a wealthy widow, but the title and estates had passed to a son born of an earlier marriage. With no country home of her own to retreat to, she turned to her closest friend.
Elizabeth had come to call almost daily. Though she and her husband had withdrawn from the situation with Philippe, Elizabeth had not, as Bea had first feared, abandoned her as a friend. Yet the trips to Gunther’s, or the milliner’s, rarely cheered Bea up. Nor did helping to embroider tiny blankets and caps, since happiness for Elizabeth was dampened by pangs of regret for all she could not have.
So when Elizabeth arrived two mornings after Bea had turned her report over to Viscount Castlereagh, Bea shook her head at the suggestion they walk in the park.
“E.,” she asked instead, “I once provided sanctuary for you when you were in need. Might I ask the favor be returned? I want to go back to Montgrave.”
Elizabeth hugged her, and Bea could feel the slight swell where her friend’s child grew. “Montgrave is open to you for as long as you wish. Are you sure, though, that is where you wish to be?”
“Yes.” If Bea’s assessment of the spies’ song was correct, Philippe would soon be freed. Richard Durand—if he could be found—was the man the British government would call to account. The question was, though, when the arrest was lifted, what would Philippe d
o?
And that was a question Bea couldn’t answer. If he packed his bags and sailed immediately for France—a decision she half-expected, and for which she could hardly blame him, she didn’t want to be around to observe the ton’s reaction to his rejection of her.
If he did hope to mend things, if he thought there was a chance their love could survive the shattered trust of the past few weeks, he would call on her. Bea’s butler had already been instructed, should Monsieur Durand call, to hand him a note that said simply:
Meet me in the garden.
“I do hope you’ve saved at least some of the brandy,” Bea announced upon finding Lily Moffett still in residence at Montgrave.
Lily’s mouth fell open at this highly unconventional greeting, but she hastily closed it and nodded, eyes wide.
“Good. Because I have every intention of drinking. Too.”
Lily choked back an appalled laugh. “Montgrave is such a lovely place to escape the pressures of the city, my lady.”
From this, Bea assumed Lily had read enough of the papers to know exactly what “pressures” had led Bea to flee. That was perfectly fine with her—it saved the trouble of hashing through it once again. Though, after a few brandy-soaked evenings, bits and pieces of her woes spilled out. Lily might not meet societal standards for a prim lady’s companion, but these days, Bea didn’t meet societal standards for a lady—and never once did Lily judge her for it.
Talking to Lily kept the loneliness at bay, especially in the evenings, when there was little to take Bea’s mind off her troubles. Since Bea refused to read the papers there was even less to do. She scanned them for the first few days, until she saw confirmation that Philippe’s name had been cleared. After that, she didn’t want to know.
Did he still care for her at all? Or had too much passed—too much time, and too much misunderstanding? The unanswered questions could drive a person to madness.
During the daylight hours, Bea went faithfully to the rose garden. It was different now. Though her last visit had been mere weeks ago, time left nothing unchanged. The vines had long overgrown their trellises to tangle about the feet of the bench or wrap around the stone basin, colorful blooms popping up where the eye least expected them.
Bea brought pen and paper, and every day she wrote. She wrote until her hand ached, until her whole body ached, and yet the poetry flowed forth. In the past few months, her world had expanded tenfold, and when she shrank that world back down, confined it to the space of the little garden, the new thoughts and complex emotions and reflections on life came rushing forward, demanding she set them to paper.
So she did, and tried not to wonder if she’d lost her only chance at love.
Even on the morning her gaze fell accidentally upon the gossip sheet—hastily snatched away by a sad-eyed Lily—that reported one Monsieur Jean Philippe Durand had sailed for France, Bea went to the garden to write.
Chapter 22
That was how Philippe found her. Pen in hand, head bent over a notebook, biting her bottom lip in intense concentration. Dear God, he loved her.
Not that he deserved her. He’d rejected her poem, her written declaration of love. When he’d been cast as a spy, she should have been the first to reject him in return. Yet she’d stood in the face of all Society and fought to prove his innocence, because no matter how he’d treated her, her integrity demanded it. Society had scorned her for doing so, perhaps even more than they’d scorned him. And yet, she’d given him one last chance. Meet me in the garden.
She hadn’t seen, or heard, him yet. He admired the soft curve of her cheek, the endearing way she’d tucked her feet up beside her on the bench, and he ached to yank her into his arms and forget the past. Before he could, he had to convince her that her faith in him had not been misplaced.
In all the world, no one else, man or woman, had loved him as truly, as selflessly as Bea. He would happily spend the rest of his life proving himself worthy of that love.
“Beatrice.”
She gasped, scattering papers as her mouth formed a perfect O of surprise.
“Philippe.” She blinked, then blinked again, as though she thought him a hallucination. “You sailed for France.”
He entered the clearing, stopping only when he was near enough to see the wild beat of her pulse at her throat. “Non. I have unfinished business here.”
“I feared I would never see you again,” she whispered.
He gave her a rueful smile, hating every moment of doubt he’d caused her. “I could not allow that to happen.”
She smiled up at him, but her eyes still held questions.
“Beatrice.” He gathered her hands in his, his chest aching as he felt her tremble. “I have been tried and found wanting.”
She frowned. “No, all that is over. Your name is clear.”
He shook his head slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. “No, I mean to say I have been unworthy of your devotion.”
“Oh.” Good manners dictated she deny this truth, but Bea said nothing else.
Well, he’d take silent candor over anger, Philippe reflected. “You trusted me with something precious. I know better than anyone how a poem, any work of art, is a part of one’s self, yet I rejected you because of it.”
“I know why you did.”
He tipped his head. “Pardon?”
“Your father. He explained how your mother hid from you the truth of her birth, and her art. You thought I was doing the same.”
He nodded. “I shall have to thank him. Though the explanation does not fully excuse my behavior. Especially when I have you to thank for clearing my name. How brave you have become, Beatrice.”
And, he realized, in spite of her faults, he had his mother to thank as well. If she hadn’t elicited from him the promise to visit England, he’d never have met the woman with whom he planned to spend the rest of his life. He smiled apologetically. “Every woman has her secrets. I should have been honored by the opportunity to discover yours.”
He squeezed her hands lightly, his thumbs rubbing, stroking until Bea closed her eyes, a soft catch in her breath.
“S’il vous plait, Beatrice,” he murmured, his accent thickening. “Allow this foolish Frenchman another chance, and I promise I shall prove worthy. I cannot bear to lose you again.”
Bea opened her eyes, determined to guard her heart with more care this time. Philippe had always had a way with words, but it was the sincerity in his gaze, the desperation she heard beneath the charming phrases that determined her answer. “Yes.”
He took a seat beside her on the bench, slid his hands up her arms and into the hair at her nape, cradling her head. “Je t’aime.”
She needed no translation. Bea’s throat grew thick and her heart filled at the words she’d waited so long to hear. “I love you, too.” She swallowed. “And I am sorry for doubting you.”
He pressed a finger against her lips. “N’en parlons plus.” Let us speak of this no more.
Removing his finger, he lowered his lips to hers, kissing her slowly, lingering with each brush of his lips, until her body melted into his on a choked sob. His arms came around her, supporting, embracing her as he tucked her head beneath his chin and simply held her.
Long moments later, the flood of emotion retreated enough for her to lift her head. “Where do we go now?”
“My studio,” he said, as though the answer were obvious. “If I am lucky, by way of my bed.”
She laughed and batted him, knowing he teased only to lighten the moment. “Wicked man, you are as outrageous as ever. But you are to return to France.”
His lips quirked and he shook his head. “Not yet. And you, ma chérie, are sorely mistaken if you think I am going anywhere without you. I have a painting to finish.”
She smiled, the full warmth of the summer sun a mere fraction of the glow that filled her inside. And that was before he added, “And, if you will have me, a wedding to plan.”
She cupped his face, made blurry by her tears
of joy, and nodded.
There was one other reason to remain in England, but Philippe neglected to mention it: his release had been conditional on his agreement to testify against the man who’d raised him. If Richard Durand could be found.
At the moment, that was the furthest thing from Philippe’s mind. The closest was the intoxicating taste of Bea’s lips, and the soft press of her body to his—a sensation to which his own body’s response was decidedly not soft.
He dipped his head for another kiss, reveling in her response, the abandon with which her head fell back, offering him the creamy length of her neck, and a view of the enticing hollow between her breasts.
He stroked her back, slid his hands up her sides, cupping her breasts, and felt his body harden further.
“Please,” he begged her, “tell me you do not expect company in the garden today.”
She shook her head.
He pulled her into his lap, deepening the kiss. The soft curve of her hip against his groin was torture. If this went any further…
He forced himself to still. “I would do no further harm to you, or to your reputation, ma chérie. If you are uncomfortable…”
Her only response was a whimper of need. His control broke.
He pushed her skirts aside, her woman’s center pressed against his hardness. She rocked against him and he groaned. Her lips were parted, her breath coming in short pants. He bent his head to her breast, tugging at the filmy fabric of her gown until he bared a nipple.
Her fingers dug into his back as his mouth closed over her breast. His erection throbbed, straining at the layers of fabric between them. He couldn’t take it anymore.
He lifted her from him. Understanding, Bea shrugged out of her drawers as he unfastened his trousers. He sat back on the bench and crooked a finger at her.
She raised her eyebrows.
He smiled, realizing that although they’d made love in this garden before, they’d lain upon the grass. “Oui, just like this,” he confirmed, pulling her to straddle him again, holding her hips above him. His erection nudged her moist entrance.
