by Shana Galen
“Is this seat taken?” he asked, indicating the couch cushion beside her.
It was. Lady Ravensgate would return and expect to sit there. But Collette shook her head.
“May I sit beside you?”
She nodded, wishing she could somehow force her lips to move or her voice to return.
“You have not been in Town long, have you?” Beaumont asked. He didn’t seem to require an answer because he went on speaking without waiting for one. “No, I would have noticed you before if you had been here during the Season.”
Collette could not have imagined why. There was nothing special about her—she was shy, average in height and looks, and no one of consequence.
“Mrs. Saxenby tells me you are from France. Lovely country. I spent considerable time there during the war.”
The war. Her father. Collette snapped out of her trance and hastily looked about the room. Palmer and Thorpe were still standing in the middle of the room, but she had no idea what they were discussing. Had they moved on or were they still conversing about the intercepted communications?
“I’ve been wanting to meet you since I first noticed you,” Beaumont was saying. His voice carried over those of Palmer’s and Thorpe’s, and she couldn’t hear what the men were saying. She wanted to move closer, but there was no way to excuse herself and do so without drawing attention. Indeed, when she scanned the chamber she noted that practically every female eye in the drawing room was on her. Even Lady Ravensgate watched her, her expression inscrutable.
“And I think you have been wanting to meet me.”
Collette frowned and glanced back at Beaumont. She hadn’t been wanting to meet him. She’d admired him on occasion—oh, very well, on every occasion—but she hadn’t sought an introduction and had no desire to meet him. He was a distraction, and she could not afford distractions.
“Now is your chance,” he said. “What would you like to know about me? Or perhaps you’d rather take a turn about the room on my arm?”
Collette’s eyes widened. Was the man serious? Did he really think she had been doing nothing but waiting for the chance to hear all about him or serve as decoration for his side? Oh, she did not have time for this sort of conceit.
But she must say something. Even if only a few words to dismiss him. She opened her mouth to say Pray, excuse me. Instead, she said, “Hedgehogs show promiscuous mating behaviors.”
Beaumont’s brows rose, his slumberous violet eyes becoming more alert. “Did you say hedgehogs?”
Collette felt her hot cheeks burst into flames. “Yes. Erinaceus europaeus.” Oh, why would she not shut up? Her mouth seemed to move of its own accord. “The sows and boars do not form pair bonds.”
Beaumont’s lips twitched as though he held back a smile. He had very nice lips. The lower lips was full while the upper lip boasted a decadent indent she would have liked to lick. “What else do you know about the mating rituals of hedgehogs?” he asked.
Rien. Rien du tout! But her foolish mouth did not obey. “Both sexes may have several partners during the mating season.” She would explode. She would burst into a shower of sparks and explode.
“Ah, so very much like the ton during the social Season,” he said. “But I wonder—”
No! She could not allow this to go on.
“Excuse me,” she said, bounding to her feet before she began to spout off about scent-marking. She stumbled forward, feeling almost drunk and desperate to be anywhere but in the presence of Beaumont. Engaging Palmer and Thorpe was but a dream at this point. In her current state, she did not trust herself. It was almost a worse fate to find herself beside Lady Ravensgate at the refreshment table. But at least she was away from Beaumont. She pressed her hands to her cheeks, which felt warm, even through her gloves.
“I thought I told you he was not someone with whom you should associate,” Lady Ravensgate said, holding her wineglass close to her mouth so her lips could not be read.
“I did not wish to associate with him,” Collette answered, her back to the room so she did not have to cover her lips, only speak softly. How she wished for something cool to relieve the heat coursing through her body. “He asked Mrs. Saxenby for an introduction.”
Lady Ravensgate’s thin brows rose high on her forehead, all but disappearing. “Really? That is most curious.”
“It is most inconvenient. I had hoped to move closer to Palmer and Thorpe. I thought I’d overhead something of interest.”
“No time now. Mrs. Saxenby is signaling to begin the discussion.”
Collette sighed. The last thing she wanted was to have to listen to men drone on about an irrelevant piece of literature. Her father was sitting in a cell at this very moment, and she was stuck in a drawing room hundreds of miles away, helpless to save him.
She angled her body so she might appear interested in Mrs. Saxenby’s announcement, and in the process had a view of the couch she’d been occupying.
It was empty.
She searched the room for Mr. Beaumont.
He was nowhere to be found.
Disappointment surged through her, and wasn’t that the biggest annoyance of the evening?
* * *
“What do you mean you have nothing to report?” Draven asked that evening at the club that bore his name. Draven had found the Rafe in the dining room and signaled to him for privacy. Rafe had gone reluctantly. He was not ready to see Draven yet. But he’d joined the lieutenant colonel in a room on the top floor of the club that no one used. From the looks of it, Porter, the Master of the House, stored linens and paintings here.
“Exactly what I said,” Rafe answered. “This assignment is…taking longer than I imagined.”
“Then perhaps you should do more than simply imagine.”
Rafe bit back the saucy retort on his lips out of respect for Draven. “Yes, sir.”
Draven paced, his wild red hair jutting in several different directions. “What have you found out so far? Has she revealed anything to you?”
Rafe rubbed his temple. He’d had a headache all week. That was what came of being forced to converse about poetry and politics for hours on end. “She hasn’t exactly spoken to me, sir.” Unless one counted a litany of facts on hedgehogs. Rafe still wasn’t certain what to make of that exchange.
Draven stopped midstride. “I asked you to find out who she is working for and what she knows. That means you have to do more than take her to bed.”
Rafe clenched his jaw. “Yes, sir.”
“What do you have to say for yourself, Lieutenant?”
Rafe didn’t have a whole hell of a lot to say. He only wished the problem was too much time in bed and not enough teasing information from her. “I’ll do better, sir.”
Draven threw his hands up and paced away. “You will try harder. Is that what I’m to tell the Foreign Office? My man will try harder? What exactly is the problem? Is she that tight-lipped?”
Draven had no idea. And Rafe wasn’t about to tell him that he’d only managed to get a few sentences out of the chit. And most of those made little sense. He knew his progress wasn’t acceptable. He knew his commander expected more. But Rafe didn’t bloody well know what to do. He’d never met a woman like her.
Draven sat, attempting to appear patient. “If you don’t tell me the problem, I can’t help you.”
“There’s no problem, sir. I will have more to report soon.” And he would. This was his chance. He would not fail.
“Report now. I want details.”
Hell’s teeth, but the whole situation was humiliating. Rafe had never needed help with women before.
“That’s an order, Lieutenant.”
Rafe blew out a long breath. “I haven’t bedded her, sir.” That was a detail. Perhaps it would be enough for Draven.
Draven shrugged. “Fine. That’s not part of it anyway.”
Draven’s eyes narrowed. “You find her that repulsive? I saw nothing wrong with her.”
“It’s not that. It’s simply that she doesn’t appear interested in me, sir.”
“Are you saying I should get another man? Because I have already tapped you for this.”
“I’m not saying that at all.” Rafe blew out a breath and folded his hands together as though in prayer. “I mean, I’ve lost—” His voice caught in his throat. “I’ve lost my…charm.” That wasn’t exactly the word he wanted. But it was the easiest way to describe the effect he had on women. Or the effect he had on all women but Miss Fournay. “But I swear I will find it again. There must be a way to reach her…”
Draven said nothing for so long that Rafe finally looked up at him. Draven stared at him, brows furrowed together. “I am no judge of these sorts of things, but you don’t look any different to me. You’re still as”—he cleared his throat—“handsome as you always were. Christ, I never thought I’d be saying that to one of my men.”
“Thank you, sir, but my”—he swallowed—“allure is more than looks.”
Draven stabbed his hands on his hips. “What? Am I to list all of your accomplishments? All the reasons the woman should fall, if not in love, in lust with you?”
“Please don’t. I’m merely saying that whatever my accomplishments might be and however pleasing my looks to other women, they do not seem to appeal to Miss Fournay.”
“Beaumont, are you telling me the woman is not interested in you?”
Rafe didn’t answer.
“Are you saying she rejected your advances?”
Rafe winced. “Not exactly.”
“Then what’s the problem?” Draven bellowed, losing his patience.
Rafe had lost his about three days ago. “I wish I knew, sir. She stares at me, blushes when I look at her, and is all but speechless and flustered when I speak to her. And yet she doesn’t try to catch my attention. She never even asked for an introduction! Finally, tonight I approached her and the woman all but swooned when I held her hand, but then she excused herself and walked away. She’s not like any other woman I have ever known.” Rafe gave Draven a bewildered look, hoping the man could understand the situation because Rafe sure as hell couldn’t. “But I will try another tactic. Perhaps it’s my approach…”
Draven stood, walked across the room, and then began to laugh. At first Rafe thought perhaps he hadn’t heard correctly, but no. Draven’s shoulders were shaking and the sounds he made sounded unmistakably like laughter. “You find this amusing, sir?”
“God help me, but I do,” Draven answered, laughter in his voice. He turned, and Rafe was annoyed to see tears all but streamed down his cheeks. “It’s about time you experienced what the rest of us mortals do.”
Rafe didn’t bother arguing that he too was mortal. “And what is that, sir?”
“Rejection by the female of the species.” Draven began to guffaw again, and Rafe had the urge to punch him.
“I am pleased you find all of this so very amusing. I’m certain you and the Foreign Office will have a good laugh.”
Draven sobered. “No, we will not. The Foreign Office won’t be told of this. You will complete this assignment, Lieutenant. You will just have to work a little harder.”
Rafe did not like the sound of that. “This is a woman, not a profession.”
“See, there’s the problem.” Draven pointed at him. “You will have to approach this woman differently. You must woo her, seduce her, court her.”
Rafe balked. “Sir, I have never done anything of the sort, and I do not intend to do so now.” Court a woman? What was next? Marriage? Rafe felt perspiration break out along his forehead.
“This isn’t a suggestion, Lieutenant. This is an order. You will find a way to bring yourself into the young lady’s confidence. The safety and sovereignty of your country depends upon it.”
Rafe closed his eyes. When Draven put matters in that light, how could he argue? “Yes, sir.”
“Very good. What is your plan?” Draven sat and placed his arms on the table, locking his hands together.
“My plan? Right.” Rafe had come in order to form a plan. “Now that we have been introduced, I suppose I will try and speak to her again or perhaps dance with her, although there are precious few balls scheduled.”
“You must find a way to speak with her alone. That will be difficult with the horde of females who follow you to and fro.”
“What do you suggest?” And so it had come to this. He, Rafe Beaumont, was asking for advice on a woman.
“Call on her.”
“Call on…” Rafe felt his throat close. “Call…with a calling card?”
Draven nodded.
“During the hours she is at home?”
“If you would like to be admitted, yes.”
“But everyone will think I am courting her.”
“Exactly. Bring her flowers or a poem you’ve composed. That will make matters very clear.”
“A…a poem?”
Draven burst into laughter. “I was jesting about the poem, but the look on your face. Priceless.”
Rafe scowled. He was half tempted to board a ship for the Continent to escape this mission. But he was weary of traveling. He’d seen enough of the Continent to last him a lifetime.
“If you need more advice, ask Lord Phineas. He knows what to do. Or Lord Jasper. He could tell you.”
Rafe did not believe for a moment Jasper, the man they all called the Bounty Hunter, knew anything about social calls.
“And don’t look so glum.” Draven stood. “There are worse assignments than wooing a woman.” He crossed the room and opened the door.
“Then why don’t you do it?” Rafe called after him.
“Too old and too ugly,” Draven called back.
“Old and ugly,” Rafe muttered. “He’s far too clever to agree to this.” But Draven wasn’t the only one who was clever. Rafe wasn’t one of the Survivors without reason.
Three
Collette stared at the letter in her hand. She’d stared at it many times before. Her father had pressed it into her hand just before he’d been taken away. “This will clear my name,” he’d said. Collette did not understand what he could have meant. He was Bonaparte’s assassin. How could he be cleared of that? Unless the letter proved that he had no choice but to work for Bonaparte? That might help his cause.
Unfortunately, she could not determine the hidden meaning of the letter. It was written in English, but it seemed to describe an idyllic countryside. It had to be in code. And she needed the cipher to decode it.
She had considered it might be a mask letter. She tried cutting out various templates—a bird, a cross, a fleur-de-lis—in order to see if the secret message might be contained in one of these “masks.” But nothing had become clearer. She might have the wrong template or the code might be completely different.
“Have you made any progress?” Lady Ravensgate asked, lowering her embroidery. She’d been making a chair cover with a rustic scene of trees and a waterfall.
“No.” Collette wiped at her eyes, which burned with fatigue. “Nothing. Much like my efforts here in England.”
To her surprise, tears sprang to her eyes. She withdrew a handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes.
The sound of rustling silk and the fragrance of roses warned her Lady Ravensgate was beside her. Collette did not trust her, but she preferred Lady Ravensgate not suspect as much. Collette did not object when the lady put her hand on her shoulder. “You must give it time, dear. You will find the information we need.”
Collette looked up. “Will I?” She pretended to be hopeful, but she wanted to see Lady Ravensgate’s expression. The i
nformation we need. Why did the lady need the codes?
“Of course, you will. But you must do all you can.”
“I am doing all I can.”
“Are you? The night before last, at Mrs. Saxenby’s salon, was a perfect opportunity to glean information. But you came away with only vague notions of what Thorpe and Palmer might have been discussing.”
So the lady thought to chastise her for her lack of progress. Could this be considered more confirmation that Lady Ravensgate and the men who held her father were working together? While her hostess might pretend compassion, Collette did not put it past the woman to use sympathy to manipulate her. “I was interrupted.”
“You cannot allow yourself to be distracted by handsome men, even those as charming as Mr. Beaumont.”
And there was the crux of her problem. She had to balance the social requirements of her position with the gathering of intelligence. Not for the first time, Collette wished she’d had more experience in society. Her own upbringing had been one of few luxuries, and when she’d moved from the country to Paris with her father, she’d been intimidated by the elegant men and women of Napoleon’s circle. She had little experience with society and even less with men.
A tap at the door announced a footman. “Excuse me, my lady. You have a caller.”
“Oh, good.” If Lady Ravensgate was surprised she did not show it. They did not often have callers, but the viscountess had some friends and they did come on occasion. “Who is it?”
“A Mr. Beaumont.” The footman extended his silver tray where a single white card lay in the center.
Collette, who had risen to excuse herself so her hostess and her friends might talk, sat back down. Hard.
Lady Ravensgate raised her brows and gave Collette a sidelong look. “Did you know about this?”
Collette shook her head. That seemed all she was capable of. She could hardly believe Beaumont was inside the house, only a few feet away. She looked down at her dress, a pretty yellow muslin that she wore because it fit, but which made her look like a schoolgirl again. Why had she chosen to wear this today? Why not the white muslin? And why had she not suffered through the headache and had her maid pin her hair up? Instead, she’d chosen the comfort of a long tail down her back.
