“Shh.” He pressed against her. “I know.”
“You don’t know what they said when you weren’t here. They want to—” Her stomach rolled, threatening to heave its scant contents.
“Breathe, Lucia,” Alex ordered, voice low and comforting. “They won’t touch you. They don’t know who you are, and as long as Décharné isn’t sure of your worth and how he can use you, you’ll be safe.”
“Would it matter if they knew who I was?”
“No, but let me worry about that. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
Lucia leaned back, resting her head against his solid shoulder. Hearing the words aloud soothed her ragged nerves. Alex would never allow harm to come to her or Francesca or anyone he considered part of his family. He would protect her with his life.
“We need a plan.”
Alex groaned. “You never give up, do you?”
“Alex, this is no time for jokes.” She sat up indignantly. “We need a strategy.”
“And I suppose you have one.”
Lucia bit her lip. “Not yet,” she admitted. She searched the darkness for inspiration. “I need to know where we’re going and who these men are first.”
He was silent.
“Alex, you owe me that much at least.” She felt his body tighten.
“I owe you? Need I remind you, madam, that you crawled through my window, you entered my bedroom, you—”
“I made a few impulsive decisions.”
“A few?”
“Alex.”
He sighed. Heavily. “I can’t tell you everything.”
“Tell me what you can.” She scooted closer. The mystery surrounding Alex was finally unraveling, and she was excited and a little afraid.
“Ethan was in France.”
“Ethan?” Lucia frowned. “What does he have to do with this?” This wasn’t unraveling. This was just tangling the matter further.
“My mother’s family was French, and my half-sister, Lady Emily Aubain, married a French nobleman. I didn’t really know her. She was older than Ethan and away at school when I was growing up. When the Revolution began, she and her husband, Luc, went into hiding. Ethan attempted to get Emily, Luc, and their daughter out of France. He failed. They were turned in and sent to the guillotine. All of them. Even my two-year-old niece, Renee.”
“Oh, Alex!” Lucia’s heart ripped in two, shred by pain she knew must only be a fraction of what Ethan and Alex felt.
“Ethan was there to see it.” Alex’s voice was cold and unemotional. “The crowd cheered when the blade fell on her tiny blond head. Ethan wanted revenge, and that was when he met Wentworth—the same Wentworth from your brother’s note. The Foreign Office stationed Wentworth in France, and he was monitoring the situation and reporting back to Lord Grenville. Anti-British sentiment was high in France, and everyone had to be cautious.”
Lucia thought of her brother, now in France as well. If the French hated the British twelve years ago, how much might that hatred have grown now that the two countries were at war? How much more danger might that mean for John?
“After the executions, Ethan went mad,” Alex continued, “risking his life to smuggle the condemned out of the country and setting up safe houses and a network of contacts. He was blinded by the danger until Wentworth saved him. Wentworth convinced Ethan he could have a greater impact if he joined the Foreign Office. Ethan agreed, and no one except Grenville and Wentworth knew of Ethan’s involvement.”
“But I’ve heard rumors that Ethan was helping England with the situation in France,” Lucia said. She felt Alex nod.
“There are rumors, but I doubt you or anyone else guessed the extent of Ethan’s involvement in the war effort. He and Wentworth not only gathered information on the French political situation, they were instrumental in helping dozens of innocent people escape the guillotine. By the time Bonaparte came to power, Wentworth was too old to continue as before. Ethan needed someone he could trust.”
“And who better than his brother.”
“Exactly.”
It was all coming together now, and Lucia couldn’t believe she had never suspected Alex of working for the Foreign Office before. It was just—he didn’t seem the patriotic type. Didn’t seem the kind of man to care about kin and country. Or anything. “And, of course, you agreed,” she said.
“There was my sister’s death to avenge.”
“And I suppose the danger, the excitement, the risk, and the chance to be a hero played no part in that decision?”
“Someone has to be a hero, sweetheart. Couldn’t let Ethan take all the glory.”
She could almost hear him smiling.
“I assumed the name of Christophe Homais—remember that because you’ll have to use it in France. I obtained lodgings, a false background and identity, and I instituted myself among Bonaparte’s outer circle. It took years to establish my position. To gain their trust. Eventually I was able to begin procuring information. If it was something I thought relevant, I sent it by Ethan or Camille to Wentworth or the secretary.”
Lucia shook her head, still unable to comprehend, but it made perfect sense. All the time Alex spent in Europe. His reluctance to talk about his business there. She couldn’t believe it—wouldn’t until he said it directly.
“Are you telling me that—am I supposed to believe that you’re a spy?” When she said it aloud it sounded absolutely ridiculous.
“I prefer to be called an intelligence specialist. But the short answer is, yes.”
Lucia blinked. He was a spy. Alex was a spy. “And—and these men have discovered your identity and are taking you to France for trial?” she stammered.
“Something like that.”
“But that’s treason!” She jumped to her knees and cursed at the pain of the needles racing up her sleeping legs. “In England the penalty for treason is quartering. My father told me about it. It’s barbaric. Alex, what are we going to do?”
“You fail to grasp one crucial point.” His voice was calm, almost amused.
“What’s that?”
“They have to get me to Paris first, and I have no intention of allowing that to happen.”
“But how can you—”
“You’re not the only one who can devise plans. I already have one, so you can stop your plotting. In fact I think I’d prefer it if, from now on, you wouldn’t even think the word plan.”
Lucia huffed. Why was it that no one had any faith in her plans? Hero or not, he obviously didn’t know everything or they wouldn’t be tied up, in the dark, and on a ship bound for France.
“May I ask the details of this wonderful plan?”
She heard him chuckle. “They’ll have to take us off the ship when we dock in order to transport us to Paris. We’ll escape then. Most likely we’ll put ashore in Calais, and I have contacts there.”
Well, it was more than she had, but still…“Forgive me, but this all sounds a bit general. How do you intend to escape once off the ship?”
“Details, Lucia. I’ll make that part up when I come to it.”
“Make that part—this doesn’t sound very promising.”
“Lucia, trust me. We will escape.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because it’s what I do best.”
She snorted, thinking it was true in his personal life as well. “If you’re so good at escaping, then why not exercise your prowess in London?”
“They had a bloody pistol to your head, and I didn’t want to risk it!”
His voice was angry, but Lucia’s heart was suddenly beating hard. Alex cared about her! He’d obviously been terrified when the pistol was aimed at her head, and that meant he really did care. He’d as much as said so. She was beaming.
“Try freeing your hands again,” Alex said.
Lucia barely heard him. “Hmm?”
“Move your hands. They were swollen before. Try now.”
She wiggled them. The heavy cords burned her skin,
but miraculously she was able to slip first one hand out, then the other.
“I’m free!” She turned and hugged him, kissing his neck, then feeling for his cheek, his lips. “Oh, Alex, thank you! I knew you cared!” She kissed him again.
He probably thought she’d been hit on the head to be this happy at being free. She was clutching him so tightly, she could hardly breathe.
“Lucia.” His voice was muffled. “If you’re done now, see if you can free me.”
“Oh, sorry.”
She gave him one last hug, then started on his bindings. A half an hour later, she had to rest. Her arms were aching and her fingers were raw and wet with sweat or blood.
There was no comfortable way for Alex to sit, so she crossed her legs and laid his head in her lap. Sucking on her sore fingers, she said, “So, you’re the intelligence specialist, how long can we expect to be on this ship?”
“We should arrive in France in a day, day and a half at the most,” he said, voice floating up to her.
That was about what she’d calculated, but the thought of so many hours in this tiny, dark room and the intentions of the men above almost drove her to panic again. She wondered what time it was, and then she thought of her parents. “Oh, Alex! What will my parents think when I don’t come home?” She tried to keep her hysteria under control, but she heard it creeping into her voice. “They know I’m missing by now, and they’re probably sick with worry.” But more than that, she was concerned that her vanishing would create a scandal. Her father would never forgive her.
“Hodges will figure out what’s happened. He’ll go to Dewhurst, and Freddie will go straight to my brother and your sister. I’m sure Ethan and Francesca can concoct some plausible reason for your disappearance.”
Ethan and Francesca? Freddie? Her mind was spinning. “Freddie? You mean Lord Dewhurst? Does he know you’re a spy? Pardon, I mean an intelligence specialist.”
“Freddie’s worked at the Foreign Office for years.” He sat up but stayed close enough that his arm brushed hers.
“Lord Dewhurst? The same Lord Dewhurst who cries when his cravat has a wrinkle?” She couldn’t keep the amusement out of her voice. The notion that Dewhurst was a spy was so absurd, she almost forgot about her parents.
“I don’t believe it,” she said finally.
“That’s why he’s so good at it.”
Lucia opened her mouth and shut it again. How could she argue? It made perfect sense.
“But I warn you not to call Freddie a spy in his presence,” Alex went on. “He makes a clear distinction between spies and intelligence specialists. It’s a matter of pride.”
“But he can’t be a spy,” Lucia protested feebly. “He’s—he’s a dandy!”
“And?”
“And he thinks of nothing but his cravat and—and his next bon mot.”
No answer, only the sound of the ship cutting through the water.
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Lucia, look around you. Do you think I’m being absurd?”
He had a point.
“Who else?”
“The less you know, the better.”
Oh, no! She was in too deep now, her curiosity barely plumbed. She wasn’t going to be put off by that argument. “My sister?”
“No.”
“Does Francesca know about Ethan?”
There was a pause. Alex only paused when considering what answer he should give.
“That must mean yes.”
She felt him shrug.
“Does she know about you?”
“Probably.”
“Am I the only one who doesn’t know?” She threw up her arms.
Beside her, Alex stiffened. “This is serious, Lucia. Lives are at stake. You can’t tell anyone this information. Ever.” The tone of his voice, the barest hint of fear, made her skin prickle. She thought of Francesca and little Colin and Sarah.
“But your brother—”
“He retired after he married.”
“Good.” She let out a relieved sigh. “But you said Dewhurst will go to him about my disappearance?”
“It seems likely, but there’s a limit to even Freddie’s ingenuity. We have to get you home quickly. I’m sending you back to England as soon as we reach Calais.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll go to Paris and bring your brother home.”
“John,” she breathed. Alex would find him, see him safely home. Unless—
She tensed, her fingers gripping Alex’s arm. “You don’t think John’s a spy?”
There was no answer.
Fear ripped through her, making her fingers shake. “No. That’s—”
“Absurd?”
“Yes. John couldn’t be a spy. I would know.”
“It should be absurd, but the king’s dementia must be spreading. I can’t conceive of any other reason Wentworth would have for sending a child to Bonaparte’s France.”
“A child?” Lucia straightened indignantly. “He’s twenty, the same age as I am!”
“God, Lucia, I don’t want to think about that now.” Beside her, he shifted in the dark. If his hands were free he’d probably be raking them through his hair right now. So John was a spy. Her stomach clenched so tightly with fear that she was almost physically ill. But she swallowed her panic. She knew John. He was clever and charming, creative and quick thinking.
Now that she thought of it, he’d make an excellent spy.
“Try my bindings again,” he said, interrupting his thoughts. She steadied him, and he moved so his back was to her.
“So,” she began, anxious to know more, “which of Napoleon’s nefarious plans do we have to thank you for thwarting?”
“I can’t tell you particulars.”
“Tell me something,” she said, pulling at the rope. “I’m itching with curiosity now.”
He chuckled. “It won’t impress you. Mostly I gather information about troop movements, ship building, invasion plans. I pass it through a contact to a London operative. Usually Dewhurst, although I can’t be sure. He takes it to Wentworth, and from there to the secretary or the prime minister.”
He was right. She’d hoped for something more exciting.
“I told you,” he said over her silence. “For the most part it’s dull, much like life in London. Balls, dinner parties, the theater. Once or twice in a year something of real importance crosses my path. That doesn’t mean there isn’t any danger.”
She nodded, though he couldn’t see, and continued to fumble with the knots of his bindings.
“Anyone can betray you. The French discontents like our friend Camille give me valuable information.”
Lucia winced, remembering her behavior toward the woman. Camille had probably done more to help Lucia’s country than Lucia would do in her lifetime.
“But contacts also increase the risk of identification,” Alex said.
“Is that what happened? Why you’re not in France now?”
“Yes. I took a risk, wanted to bring the information to Pitt personally, but I was nearly apprehended. I escaped, but my informant, Henri, was caught. I didn’t know if my identity had been discovered.” He paused. “Now it’s certain. That bastard Décharné tortured Henri, forced him to reveal my name, probably Camille’s as well. Hopefully, Dewhurst will think to warn her before she returns to France.”
The ship lurched, but the rolling in Lucia’s stomach had nothing to do with the choppy water. The thought of Alex hurt, of that horrible Décharné torturing him, was more than she could bear to contemplate. She yanked on a knot with renewed vigor. “Who is this Décharné?” she asked through teeth clenched with effort.
“An actor, believe it or not. During the Revolution, he gained power in the tribunals, and now he wants to hold on to it. My capture will solidify his place in Bonaparte’s inner circle.”
Another knot came loose, and Alex wiggled his wrists. Lucia sat back, rubbing her raw fingers, thankful for a moment’s respite.
The ship pitched again, and Lucia gripped Alex’s arm to steady herself. “Who is Wentworth? Do I know him?”
Alex chuckled. “He doesn’t move in your circle, Lucia. He’s a quiet man, gives any credit he deserves for his work in the Foreign Office to the secretary. But he is a hero in every sense of the word. He’s saved England more than once from possible invasion.” He paused. “There’s no one I respect or admire more.”
She could hear the admiration in his voice, and behind it something else—pain?
“There, I have it!”
Lucia started when Alex jumped up. She heard the rope from his bindings drop to the floor, and then he was moving around the room.
“What are you doing?”
“Searching. Maybe there’s something we can use.”
There wasn’t. For what seemed hours, Alex blindly explored every corner, but the cabin was virtually empty. Finally Alex slid down beside her, pressing his back against the wall and, to her surprise, gathering her close to him.
Lucia snuggled gratefully into his warmth. She was exhausted but too anxious to sleep. Alex seemed to sense that she needed a distraction, something to take her mind away from worries about her brother and Décharné. He took her hands in his and kissed her bruised fingers. And then he began to talk.
They’d never really talked before. Alex was always stoic and silent when in company, and she too garrulous. But she was silent now, listening to the sound of his voice—low and resonant—in his chest. He talked of trivial things: his plans to improve Grayson Park, a problem with a servant, his favorite tree to climb as a boy. And when Lucia finally drifted into sleep, she dreamed of a dark-haired, gray-eyed boy scaling a tree to rescue a kitten.
When she awoke, she told him stories about growing up, how Francesca had never gotten into any trouble, and how John got away with everything.
When Alex laughed after the first few tales, she was encouraged and told him more. She’d never heard him laugh so much, and she wished she could see his face.
Shana Galen Page 18
