by Brenda Joyce
A Desperate Widow
Once a penniless orphan, Evelyn D’Orsay became a countess and a bride at the tender age of sixteen. But the flames of revolution forced her to flee France, with the aid of a notorious smuggler. Recently widowed and without any means, Evelyn knows she must retrieve the family fortune from France for her daughter’s sake—but only one man can help her…the smuggler she cannot forget.
A Dangerous Spy
Jack Greystone has been smuggling since he was a small boy—and he has been spying since the wars began. An outlaw with a bounty on his head, he is in hiding when he becomes aware of the Countess’s inquiries about him. He is reluctant to come to her aid yet again, for he has never been able to forget her. But he soon realizes he’ll surrender anything to be with the woman he loves….
Praise for the novels of
New York Times bestselling author
Brenda Joyce
“Merging depth of history with romance
is nothing new for the multitalented author,
but here she also brings in an intensity of political history
that is both fascinating and detailed.”
—RT Book Reviews on Seduction
“Joyce excels at creating twists and turns
in her characters’ personal lives.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Another first-rate Regency, featuring multidimensional protagonists and sweeping drama…Joyce’s tight plot and
vivid cast combine for a romance that’s just about perfect.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Perfect Bride (starred review)
“Truly a stirring story with wonderfully etched characters, Joyce’s latest is Regency romance at its best.”
—Booklist on The Perfect Bride
“Romance veteran Joyce brings her keen sense of humor
and storytelling prowess to bear on her witty,
fully formed characters.”
—Publishers Weekly on A Lady at Last
“Joyce’s characters carry considerable emotional weight, which keeps this hefty entry absorbing,
and her fast-paced story keeps the pages turning.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Stolen Bride
Also available from Brenda Joyce
and Harlequin HQN
The Spymaster’s Men Series
Persuasion
Seduction
The Deadly Series
Deadly Vows
Deadly Kisses
Deadly Illusions
The de Warenne Dynasty
An Impossible Attraction
A Dangerous Love
The Perfect Bride
A Lady at Last
The Stolen Bride
The Masquerade
The Prize
The Masters of Time®
Dark Lover
Dark Victory
Dark Embrace
Dark Rival
Dark Seduction
And watch for
A Rose in the Storm
Coming soon
Surrender
This one’s for Tracer and Tricia Gilson—
thanks for making my world of horses such a great place!
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
PROLOGUE
Brest, France
August 5, 1791
HER DAUGHTER WOULD not stop crying. Evelyn held her, silently begging her to be quiet, as their carriage raced through the darkness. The road was rough, especially at their frantic pace, and the constant lurching and jostling did not help. If only Aimee would sleep! Evelyn feared they had been followed; she was also afraid that her daughter’s cries would cause suspicion and bring undue attention to them even if they had successfully escaped Paris.
But Aimee was frightened—because her mother was frightened. Children could sense such things. But Evelyn was afraid because Aimee was the most important thing in her life, and she would die to keep her safe.
And what if Henri died?
Evelyn D’Orsay hugged her daughter, who had recently turned four, harder. She was seated in the front of the carriage with the driver, Laurent, her husband’s valet, now turned jack-of-all-trades. Her husband was slumped in the backseat, unconscious, seated between Laurent’s wife, Adelaide, and her own ladies’ maid, Bette. She glanced back now, her heart lurching with alarm. Henri remained deathly white.
His health had begun to fail him sometime after Aimee had been born. He had also become consumptive. Was his heart failing him now? Could he survive this mad, frightening dash through the night? Would he survive the Channel crossing? Evelyn knew he needed a doctor, desperately, just as she knew this wild carriage ride could not be helpful to him.
But if they could make it out of France, if they could make it to Britain, they would be safe.
“How far are we?” she whispered. Luckily Aimee had stopped crying; in fact, she had fallen asleep.
“I think we are almost there,” Laurent said. They were speaking French. Evelyn was an Englishwoman, but she had been fluent in French even before she had met the Count D’Orsay, becoming his child bride almost overnight.
The horses were lathered and blowing hard. Fortunately, they did not have much farther to go—or so Laurent thought. And it would soon be dawn. At dawn, they were to disembark with a Belgian smuggler, who was awaiting them even now.
“Will we be late?” she asked, keeping her tone low, which was a bit absurd, as the coach rattled and groaned with the horses’ every stride.
“I think we will have an hour to spare,” Laurent said, “but not much more than that.” He glanced briefly at her, his look a significant one.
She knew what he was thinking now—they were all thinking it. It had been so hard to escape Paris. There would be no going back, not even to their country home in the Loire Valley. They must leave France if they were to survive. Their lives were at stake.
Aimee was sound asleep. Evelyn stroked her soft, dark hair and fought her own need to weep with fear and desperation.
She glanced back at her elderly husband again. Since meeting and marrying Henri, her life had felt so much like a fairy tale. She had been a penniless orphan, subsisting on the charity of her aunt and uncle; now, she was the Countess D’Orsay. He was her dearest friend, and the father of her daughter. She was so grateful to him for all that he had done for her, and all he meant to do for Aimee.
She was so afraid for him now. His chest had been bothering him all day. But he had survived their flight from Paris, and Henri had insisted that they must not delay. Their neighbor had been imprisoned last month for crimes against the state. The Vicomte LeClerc had not committed any crimes—she was sure of it. But he was an aristocrat....
Their usual residence was Henri’s family estate in the Loire Valley. But every spring Henri would pack up the family and they would go to Paris for a few months of theater, shopping and dining. Evelyn had fallen in love with Paris the very first time she had set foot in the city, before the revolution. But the city she had once loved no longer existed, and had they realized how dangerous Paris had become, they wouldn’t have gone for another visit.
In spite of
the revolution, Paris remained flooded with unemployed workers, laborers and farmers, who roamed the streets seeking revenge upon anyone who had anything, unless they were striking or rioting. Taking a stroll down the Champs-Élysées was no longer pleasant, nor was riding in the park. There were no more interesting supper parties, no more scintillating operas. Shops catering to the nobility had long since closed their doors.
The fact that her husband, the comte, was a relation of the queen had never been a secret. But the moment a hatmaker had realized the connection, their lives had suddenly and truly changed. Shopkeepers, bakers, prostitutes, sansculottes and even National Guardsmen had kept watch upon her and her family at their townhome. Every time her door was opened, sentinels could be seen standing outside. Every time she left the flat she had been followed. It had become too frightening to venture outside of the apartment. It was as if they were suspected of crimes against the state. And then LeClerc had been arrested.
“Your time will come.” A passerby had leered at her the day their neighbor was taken away in shackles.
And Evelyn had become afraid to go out. She had ceased doing so. From that moment, they had become actual prisoners of the people. She had begun to believe that they would not be allowed to leave the city, if they tried. And then a pair of French officers had called on Henri. Evelyn had been terrified that they were about to arrest him. Instead, they had warned him that he must not leave the city until given permission to do so and that Aimee must remain in Paris with them. And the fact that they had said so—that they even knew about Aimee—had triggered them as nothing else could. They had immediately begun planning their escape.
And it was Henri who had suggested they follow in the wake of the thousands of émigrés now fleeing France for Great Britain. Evelyn had been born and raised in Cornwall, and once she had realized that they were going home, she had been thrilled. She had missed the rocky beaches of Cornwall, the desolate moors, the winter storms, the blunt, outspoken women and the hardworking men. She missed taking tea at the nearby village inn, and the wild celebrations that ensued when a smuggler arrived with his precious cargo. Life in Cornwall could be difficult and harsh, but it had its softer moments. Of course, they would probably reside in London, but she also loved the city. She couldn’t imagine a better—safer—country in which to raise her daughter.
Aimee deserved so much more. And she did not deserve to become another innocent victim of this terrible revolution!
But first they had to get from Brest to the smuggler’s ship, and then they had to get across the Channel. And Henri had to survive.
She felt the surge of panic and she trembled. Henri needed a doctor, and she was tempted to delay their flight to attend him. She could not imagine what she would do if he died. But she also knew he wanted her and Aimee safely out of the country. In the end, she would put her daughter first.
“Has he shown any signs of reviving?” she cried, glancing over her shoulder.
“Non, Comtesse,” Adelaide whispered. “Le comte needs a physician soon!”
If they delayed, in order to attend Henri, they would remain in Brest for another day or perhaps even more. Within hours, or at least by this evening, their disappearance would be noticed. Would they be pursued? It was impossible to know, except that the officials had warned them not to leave the city and they had defied that edict. If there was pursuit, there were two obvious ports to search—Brest and Le Havre were the most frequently used ports of departure.
There was no choice to make. Evelyn clenched her fists, filled with determination. She was not accustomed to making decisions, and especially not important ones, but in another hour they would be safely at sea, and out of reach of their French pursuers, if they did not delay.
They had reached the outskirts of Brest, and were passing many small houses now. She and Laurent exchanged dark, determined looks.
A few moments later, salt tinged the air. Laurent drove the team into the graveled courtyard of an inn that was just three blocks from the docks. The night was now filled with scudding clouds, at times in darkness, at other times, brightened by the moon. As Evelyn handed her daughter down to Bette, her tension intensified. The inn seemed busy—loud voices could be heard coming from the public room. Perhaps that was better—it was so crowded, no one would pay attention to them now.
Or perhaps they would.
Evelyn waited with Aimee, asleep in her arms, while Laurent went inside to get help for her husband. She was clothed in one of Bette’s dresses and a dark, hooded mantle that had been worn by another servant. Henri was also dressed as a commoner.
And finally Laurent and the innkeeper appeared. Evelyn slipped up her hood as he approached—her looks were too remarkable to go unnoticed—and cast her eyes down. The two men lifted Henri from the carriage and carried him inside, using a side entrance. Holding Aimee Evelyn followed with Adelaide and Bette. They quickly went upstairs.
Evelyn closed the door behind her two women servants, daring to breathe with some relief, but not yet daring to remove her hood. She signaled Adelaide with her eyes, not wanting her to light more than one candle.
If their disappearance had been noted, the French authorities might have put out warrants for their arrests. Descriptions would accompany those warrants and their pursuers would be looking for a little girl of four with dark hair and blue eyes, a sickly and frail older nobleman of medium height with gray hair and a young woman of twenty-one, dark-haired, blue-eyed and fair-skinned, one remarkably beautiful in appearance.
Evelyn feared that she was too distinct in her appearance. She was too recognizable, and not just because she was so much younger than her husband. When she had first come to Paris, as a bride of sixteen, she had been acclaimed the city’s most beautiful woman. She hardly thought that, but she knew her looks were striking and hard to miss.
Henri had been made comfortable in one bed, and Aimee in another. Laurent and the innkeeper had stepped aside, and were speaking in hushed tones. Evelyn thought that they were both grim, but there was urgency in the situation. She smiled at Bette, who was tearful and so clearly frightened. Bette had been given the choice of going home to her family in Le Loire. She had chosen instead to come with them, fearing being hunted down and interrogated if she did not.
“It will be all right,” Evelyn said softly, hoping to reassure her. They were the same age, but suddenly Evelyn felt years older. “In a matter of moments, we will be on a ship, bound for England.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Bette whispered, sitting down beside Aimee.
Evelyn smiled again, then walked over to Henri. She took his hand and kissed his temple. He remained terrifyingly pale. She would not be able to bear it if he died. She could not imagine losing such a dear friend. And she knew just how dependent she was on him.
She was not certain that her aunt and uncle would welcome her back into their home, if need be. But that would be a last recourse, anyway.
The innkeeper left and Evelyn quickly hurried over to Laurent, who seemed stricken. “What has happened?” she asked, with another curdling sensation.
“Captain Holstatter has left Brest.”
“What?” she cried, aghast. “You must be mistaken. It is August the fifth. We are on time. It is almost dawn. In another hour, he is taking us to Falmouth—he has been paid half of his fee in advance!”
Laurent was starkly white. “He happened upon a very valuable cargo, and he left.”
She was in shock. They had no means of crossing the Channel! And they could not linger in Brest—it was too dangerous!
“There are three British smugglers in the harbor,” Laurent said, interrupting her thoughts.
There was a reason they had chosen a Belgian to take them to England. “British smugglers are usually French spies,” she cried.
“If we are going to leave immediately, the only choice is to seek out one of them, or wait here, until we can make other arrangements.”
Her head ached again. How was it that she wa
s making the most important decision of their lives? Henri always made all of the decisions! And the way Laurent was looking at her, she knew he was thinking the same thing she was—that remaining in town was not safe. She turned and glanced at Aimee. Her heart lurched. “We will leave at dawn, as planned,” she decided abruptly, her heart slamming. “I will make certain of it!”
Trembling, she turned and went to a valise that was beside the bed. They had fled the city with a great number of valuables. She took a pile of assignats from it, the currency of the revolution, and then, instinctively, took out a magnificent ruby-and-diamond necklace. It had been in her husband’s family for years. She tucked both within the bodice of her corset.
Laurent said, “If you will use one of the Englishmen, Monsieur Gigot, the innkeeper, said to look for a ship named the Sea Wolf.”
She choked on hysterical laughter, turning. Was she
really going alone to meet a dangerous smuggler—at dawn and in the dark, in a strange city, with her husband near death—to beg for his help?
“His ship is the swiftest, and they say he can outrun both navies at once. It is fifty tons, black sails—the largest of the smuggling vessels in the harbor.”
She shuddered, nodding grimly. The Sea Wolf…black sails… “How do I get to the docks?”
“They are three blocks from the inn,” Laurent told her. “I think I should come with you.”
She was tempted to agree. But what if someone discovered them while she was gone—what if someone realized who Henri was? “I want you to stay here and guard le comte and Aimee with your life. Please,” she added, consumed with another intense wave of desperation.
Laurent nodded and walked her to the door. “The smuggler’s name is Jack Greystone.”
She wanted to cry. Of course, she would do no such thing. She pulled up her hood and gave her sleeping daughter one last look.
Evelyn knew she would find Greystone, and convince him to transport them across the Channel, because Aimee’s future depended on it.
She hurried from the room, and waited to hear Laurent slide the bolt on the door’s other side, before she rushed down the narrow, dark corridor. One taper burned from a wall sconce at the far end of the hall, above the stairs. She stumbled down the single flight, thinking of Aimee, of Henri and a smuggler with a ship named the Sea Wolf.
