Her Quicksilver Lover: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 6

by Lynne Connolly

  “Oh.” So disguising herself had actually brought curiosity on her rather than otherwise. That was a salutary thought. “Why buy the paper? You could have just come and asked us about the club. We are hardly going to deny the government.”

  “A small indulgence of my own. My investment in your journal is done with my money, not the government’s, and I am sincere in my wish that you continue to prosper and make the Argus a strong journal that people can rely on.”

  “He paid handsomely for the privilege,” her father put in softly. “He does not wish for the capital assets—asset,” he corrected himself with a short laugh.

  Gough’s money had paid for the rent on the house they were in, the ink, paper, and the boys to take the journal around London. They had seen an increase in circulation because of those improvements, and expected to see more in the future. They had this man to thank for that. Joanna’s instincts revolted at the thought. He made her uncomfortable. She would rather not be beholden to him for anything at all.

  “I merely wish to provide some reward for good service.” Mr. Gough flashed a smile at him, then turned his attention back to Joanna, and his face grew solemn. “We suspect the club is a centre of sedition and spies. It could even provide a spy network. Right in the heart of London.”

  Joanna’s mind flashed back to the sight of Amidei staring out the window at St. James’s Palace, and making an enigmatic remark about strange neighbours. Was it true? He was Italian, living in France for some time, he’d told her. Was he really a French spy, or an Italian one?

  Her heart said no, rejected it in the most violent terms, but her heart was a naive and inexperienced organ in this respect. She would not believe the worst of him before she knew more. “Why would you think that, sir?”

  Gough smiled and nodded. “I would assume you would ask that and I’m glad you did. The owner is a foreigner, and many of his servants come from abroad. He receives many visitors from abroad too. Not that I am suspicious of all foreigners.” His easy smile did not look real to Joanna. “It is the reports issuing from the house, and the suspicious activities of the inmates that drew our suspicions.”

  “You want me to spy?” The notion repulsed her, now that she knew the true reason for it. If she found anything, Amidei, Lightfoot, and many others could hang.

  As a true and loyal subject of the king, she should be rejoicing at this opportunity to do her country a signal service, but her instincts rebelled against it. Spies were not thanked for their work, and most were unpleasant people. How could that not be true, when it involved lying to the people who regarded her as a friend?

  So how was that different to what she did already? She collected gossip about society goings-on, but that was all. She did not involve herself in state affairs. What would she have done had she discovered something that proved Amidei was a spy for a foreign government?

  Everything in her rejected that notion. He had even pulled back from their kiss, when she would have given all to him. He behaved like a gentleman.

  Collecting gossip was one thing, but this was quite another. Journalists worked at establishments where they could hear things. It wasn’t as if she was the only person doing that. Only last week White’s turned off a footman for selling his story to the Spectator. It was like a game that everybody played, going round and round until they were all dizzy. But this was prying at a completely different level. It would involve deceiving the people who were employing her, deceiving them. Deceiving him.

  Joanna was nothing if not honest. That was the crux of the matter. She had gained an unfortunate tendre for Lord d’Argento, and it was colouring all her reactions. Mr. Gough was a government man asking her to undertake an important task for her country. She should be glad to help. She would learn more.

  “We do not wish you to undertake any dangerous activities or call attention to yourself, but in effect, yes, we want you to discover whatever you can. For your country,” he added. “We will help, and if you can get any of our agents in the house, then they can take over the task.”

  “What do you expect me to find?”

  He watched her for a minute, as unconcerned with the silence as she had been. At least his hands were relaxed and no sign of tension marked his face. “Do you remember the riots of last year? The ones that originated in Bedlam?”

  She blinked. Surely he did not think that foreigners were automatically mad? She would see where this thread took her. “Yes, I remember. What of it?”

  “The main perpetrator was a close friend of the owner of the club. The Marquis of Stretton helped to set up the Pantheon, although he does not take an active part in running it. We know beyond doubt that he began the riot.”

  Shock arced through her. How did she not know that? The riot had been extensively reported, but the man who led the parade through the streets was given a derisory nickname. Nobody knew who he really was. Except, it appeared, this man and the government. If he was telling the truth. “Truly? Why would he do that?”

  Mr. Gough’s mouth flattened in a grim line. “To help his friend. While Stretton was leading his spectacular distraction, d’Argento completed the sale on his club and set up the lines of communication that we have been fortunate enough to interrupt occasionally. That is why. We know that people are sending messages to and from that house. If you can obtain a few of those, that would help us.”

  “How and where are they being sent?”

  The corners of his mouth relaxed. “We do not know. We have intercepted some messages at the coast, which is what alerted us to the club. Anything that appears odd to you, then we would appreciate knowing. Do not prevent the messages passing through. Take copies, if you can.”

  “I see.”

  His story sounded plausible. Amidei had said he employed a few odd characters. Did he know that he was harbouring traitors? Mr. Gough certainly thought he was. “Mr. Gough—”

  “Call me Patrick, please.”

  A little too familiar for her, but she would, if he wanted her to. “Did you know that the comte had an English mother?”

  He paused, stilled completely for the space of a heartbeat. “No, I did not. Please, that is exactly the information we need to know. Tidbits and traits. The comte invented his title, we know that much.”

  That was not what he’d told her. Amidei had promised to answer her truthfully, and she believed he had. If he had not, then she had to reconsider the way she assessed other people, because every instinct had told her he was telling her the truth.

  A turmoil of confusion whirled inside her. Patrick Gough appeared completely sincere, and he had given her father proofs of who he was. Did that mean she was falling—attracted to a traitor? What could Amidei hope to achieve by his actions? He could obtain secrets in far less expensive and easier ways. When she examined Patrick’s claims, more holes appeared, but were they because she had formed a connection with Amidei that she had never dreamed of with anyone?

  She needed to trust someone.

  “Tell him about the feet,” her father suggested.

  She knew what he meant at once. Frowning, she asked, “What does that have to do with the matter?”

  “It may have significance.”

  The fire flared up. Patrick watched her, revealing a face of handsome immutability, and warmth spread through her body and her mind, easing her into trusting him, into letting go. He is telling the truth, a little voice told her. He needs to know everything. Look at him, how handsome, how honest he is.

  No, she refused to do that until she assessed the situation for herself. Snapping her defences back, she stared him out. “I will help you if I come across anything that is definitely seditious.” And if what she discovered did not involve Amidei, she would tell him too. That would even the score, even if it cost her the trust Amidei now had in her. “I’m there, as no doubt you know, to collect society gossip, anything to sell the journal.” She glanced at her father. “Papa, if you do not want me to do that, then I won’t.” As always, her father
was the person she looked to for immediate guidance.

  “Indeed, my daughter, I do. And if you can help Mr. Gough as well, I would desire you to do that also. If this does not trouble your conscience.”

  “You mean that, Papa?”

  “Indeed I do. A person has to be at peace with their actions.”

  When she turned back to Mr. Gough, he did not appear pleased. That firm line was back. “Sometimes a person has to do something for their country that they would rather not attempt.”

  She would not argue with him, but neither did she want to agree with him. A wisp of uneasiness stirred within her.

  Mr. Gough reached out and took her hand between both of his. Joanna blinked, her throat tightening as she sucked in a quick breath. “Madam, I admire your wisdom, and I will not force you to do anything that goes against your conscience. But your country’s safety is at stake. If this is a nest of spies, it needs rooting out and dispersing. Surely you can understand that?” His voice lowered, forcing intimate communication. “Sometimes a man must sacrifice himself for his country. And for a woman.” He squeezed her hand gently. “Are you ready to do this? It could be dangerous, if they catch you.”

  Her father spoke before she did. “She said she saw the factotum of the club, a Mr. Lightfoot, with his shoes and stockings off.”

  Her heart sank. She had fended off that part of the conversation, and now her father had brought her back to it in a way she could not avoid.

  Patrick’s eyes widened and a flash brightened them. At the same time, something stirred in her mind, as if someone else occupied her head. Patently ridiculous, of course. But as she struggled to cope with the phenomenon, she felt the presence of someone else, as if Amidei stood just out of sight, but present in the room, behind her, touching her, keeping her safe.

  The odd sensation left her mind and she worked to behave normally, while she tried to cope with this new experience.

  “What did you see?” Patrick said softly.

  This was ridiculous. She was imagining things. “I saw a man with very hairy legs and strangely shaped feet. Mr. Lightfoot is obviously affected by an unusual condition, or he has suffered an accident of some kind and I feel sorry that this is so. His affliction can have nothing to do with our discussion.”

  “It might.” Patrick did not let go of her hand, though she wished he would. If she tugged it away she’d be displaying weakness, so she let it remain where it was. He chafed it, as if comforting her. She let him believe he was doing so, to give herself time to think. “If a man befriends an afflicted person, that person may become more devoted to him.”

  He was talking about Amidei.

  Patrick gave her a gentle smile and continued, “A man like that can gather the afflicted around him. Look what damage Lord Stretton did.”

  If it was Lord Stretton, and if the riot was more than a prank gone wrong. Joanna was by no means convinced of that. She only had Patrick’s word for it. But she said nothing. If her father had taught her anything, it was not to trust any one source over another, and she would need confirmation before she believed. The riot when people had escaped from Bedlam had ended in the Drury Lane theatre, and one woman had died. While that was unfortunate, out of all the people involved and all the seeming chaos, only one person had lost her life. Joanna had wondered about that at the time, and she wondered now. Riots usually involved many more deaths than just one.

  “We believe that the man calling himself the Comte d’Argento has gathered people around him who will stop at nothing to serve him. So far we do not know which country holds his loyalty, or if he is merely selling what he discovers to the highest bidder. I need to know more about him, much more.”

  All that vacillating between “I” and “we” did not tell Joanna if she was talking to one person or the representative of many. Perhaps he meant her to think that way, to confuse his motives for doing this.

  “Can you do this for me, Joanna? I hate to ask a woman to do such dangerous work, but sometimes it is necessary for the country’s safety. If you discover proof of treason, you will be this nation’s heroine. The work will be rewarded, but you cannot expect public accolades for it.”

  “What rewards?” Perhaps this was the answer. Did he want something he did not have?

  He gave a gentle smile. “Perhaps you, Joanna, are the wife I am looking for.”

  Chapter Eight

  This situation was growing more bizarre by the minute. Did he mean what he said? “Wife?” she said numbly. Even her father started.

  “Why would you do that?” he demanded. “What would you obtain by marrying my Joanna?”

  At last Patrick released her hands, but to hold up a calming one. “If we say I am Joanna’s betrothed, my visits here would not be taken amiss.”

  “Is not your role as patron enough?” she said.

  He shook his head. “I plan to be here often. Even the most assiduous patron would not do that. But the notion that I am your intended would not evoke any suspicion. People gossip, and you have lived here long enough for your neighbours to get to know you.”

  Joanna didn’t like it. “Do we have to do this?”

  “Would it hurt you so much? Besides, if that pretence should turn into the real thing, then I would not be entirely sorry for it.”

  “Just partially sorry?” she said before she could censor herself.

  His gentle smile turned into a laugh. “Not sorry at all,” he said.

  The import of what he was saying jolted Joanna into reality. “You cannot mean that you would wish to marry me in truth. We only met this morning.”

  “I would be proud to call you my wife.”

  Joanna sat there, blinking. “Wife?” She was beginning to sound like a parrot now, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Allow me to explain.” He took a sip of his brandy before he continued. “I am the son of a viscount. My father is urging me to marry, as my older brother and his wife have not yet been fortunate enough to produce an heir. I am in no hurry, because I have set my heart on winning myself a partner, not just a breeder.”

  Either fate had not particularly appealed to Joanna before. But this man was, by all accounts, well off. He was young enough, handsome, and masculinity oozed from every pore. His teeth were good—important when one would be expected to kiss him—and he was possessed of more than average intelligence. At least, she’d thought so before he mentioned the wife part.

  And she was assessing him as if he was a horse. What would make him consider an idiotic thing like that?

  He grimaced. “Indeed, my father has already chosen a wife for me. Suffice it to say that she is exceedingly repulsive to me. She is slovenly, and she has very little intelligence.”

  Joanna would be completely dependent on him. No, that was perhaps not entirely fair. He had shown Joanna nothing that indicated he thought in that way. But what other reason would a man have to choose a poor girl of no fortune? “I have nothing to bring to a marriage, sir. No fortune of any kind, no influential relatives. Nothing.” Saying it aloud compounded her melancholy fate, one she refused to dwell upon normally. This time, she had to.

  “I would not say that. If I chose you, Joanna, I would have a woman of intelligence by my side. A lovely one too.” His gaze lingered on her decently covered breasts before returning to her face. She repressed a shiver when his perusal stripped her bare. “I would have a wife of my choosing, not one imposed upon me. Of course we cannot be certain on such brief acquaintance, but it would be adequate reward for your work for our country, and I would not have to worry about my father forcing that woman on me. I would treat you well, never fear. If I present my father with a respectable wife as a fait accompli, he would be content enough. He wants an heir.”

  “I always wanted my daughter to be as happy as I was,” her father said softly. “I loved my wife dearly. When she was taken from us, all I had to live for was Joanna. I am content for you to visit, and try to fix her interest, but no more. Do not
tell anyone you are betrothed to her until I agree.”

  At least he did that for her. But she could not rely on her father to come to an agreement. What would she do then? Marry him? She almost laughed at the idea.

  “In the meantime I can talk to you alone with complete propriety. So will you agree to let people think I am sweet on you to give my visits here sanction?”

  “Is not the fact that you have an interest in the paper enough?” she said mildly.

  “No. I might need to call on you privately. Please be assured I will always act with the utmost propriety, but we need to hurry this business, root out the nest before it takes hold. If what I believe has happened tonight continues on its course, then I will be happy to take you to the nearest church to sanction our union.”

  Joanna glanced at her father, easily reading the lines of tension on his face. If she refused to help Patrick, he could walk away, and then they’d really be in a pickle. With nobody to pay the rent or sell the papers, they’d have to sell their one source of income—the printing press.

  She lowered her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “I accept your proposal. I will help you.”

  *

  Intent on greeting his new guest, Amidei strode downstairs in full d’Argento mode. His wig was perfectly tied and powdered, his lips held the faintest trace of rouge, his coat was white and his waistcoat silver. Nobody would confuse him with the working man who had trailed Joanna to her father’s house.

  Nor should they. Diamonds glinted on his hands and throat and marched down the front of his waistcoat and coat. They twinkled on his shoe buckles and at his knee. Nothing could touch him like this, not even meeting a man who had been one of his best friends in a previous incarnation.

  This version of Apollo might not even remember. If they were not taught properly, they could assume they were purely human, that their gifts were oddities, to be hidden or suppressed. Since Amidei had some acquaintance with Apollo’s sisters, at least he knew that was not the case. This Apollo knew who he was.