by Brenda Joyce
Whyte had a very untrustworthy appearance, she thought grimly. He reminded her of a horse trader, or a weasel. And to make matters even worse, he kept staring through her veil, which was transparent, and he kept looking at her bust, even though the neckline of her dress was so high, she could not wear her pearls. He made her terribly uncomfortable. When Greystone had given her a male appraisal, it hadn’t been frightening like this.
“I realize it is a dangerous mission,” Evelyn said, adjusting the veil she wore attached to her hat. “But I am prepared to offer you a very fair share of my husband’s valuable heirlooms. And I am desperate.” But she kept her tone level. She could not plead with Whyte as she had pleaded her case with Greystone.
Whyte grinned at her. “An’ what is that fair share, lady?”
“Fifteen percent,” she said.
Evelyn looked down at her gloved hands, which she clasped tightly in her lap. She might still be hurt by Greystone’s rejection, never mind that she should not care, but she still had a problem—she was haunted by the kisses they had shared.
She had to forget her kiss—and his. Hers was humiliating. His was disturbing her at night. It was disturbing her during the day. It was disturbing her even now. It made her body hum with a fervor that was shameful.
She hadn’t even imagined that a man could kiss a woman with such intensity, such passion, or so thoroughly.
It was time to forget him. He was not a hero. She had been mistaken.
“An’ how much is fifteen percent?”
She looked up at Whyte. “I’m not certain.”
He laughed. “Is this a jest, my lady?” He stood, preparing to leave. “If you want me to go to France for ye, you’ll have to pay me very well—and not with some fair share.”
She leaped to her feet. “Please don’t go.” Her heart pounded. This had been the point in the negotiation when she had begun to think of using her female charms on Greystone. But fortunately, while Whyte kept leering, he seemed entirely interested in money.
Whyte sat down. “Fer such a job, I’d need a thousand pounds—in advance.”
Evelyn sat, inhaling. But she had come to this negotiation prepared. She laid her beaded black velvet purse on the table and opened it. She withdrew a wad of tissue, and unwrapped her sapphire-and-diamond ear bobs.
She had so little left to bargain with. There was the matching sapphire necklace, a sapphire ring, her pearls, a cameo and her magnificent diamond engagement ring.
His eyes widened and he seized the earrings, inspecting them. She winced when he bit into one. “What else do you have for me?”
She choked. “Those ear bobs were costly.”
“They didn’t cost you a thousand pounds. I don’t think they even cost you a penny.” He grinned, his black tooth making her look away.
He was right, if rude—the earrings hadn’t cost her a penny. “They were a gift from my beloved husband,” she whispered.
“An’ now yer in hard times. Yeah, I heard—everyone’s heard. So he must have left ye something valuable in that chest in France. But if ye want it, ye’ll have to pay with more than ear bobs.”
She felt like crying. Evelyn took the matching ring from her purse and laid it on the table. It was a five-carat sapphire, flanked by diamonds.
He took it and shoved everything into the tissue, and into his hip pocket. He stood and smiled. “I’ll be back in a week or two. We can speak some more then.”
Evelyn jumped up. “Wait a minute, Mr. Whyte, I’m expecting you to go to France—immediately.”
But he was sauntering away. He turned and grinned, saluting her with one finger to his temple. Incredulous, Evelyn seized the table as he walked through the crowd—and out the door.
He was leaving—with her jewels! Evelyn ran through the public room, comprehension hitting her—she had just given her sapphires to a stranger, a very untrustworthy stranger—but when she reached the inn’s front door, Ed Whyte was already galloping away.
She collapsed against the frame. Had he just stolen her jewels? Was he actually going to come back and plan the trip to France with her? Oh, she did not think so!
And suddenly she realized how utterly naive she had been, to give him payment in advance. It was one thing to have paid Greystone in advance for escorting her out of France—she had already been on his ship! And she still trusted Greystone, even if he had kissed her and refused her and walked out on her, he could be trusted with payment in advance, because he was, by birth and by nature, a gentleman. He would never steal from her—he would undertake the mission. But Whyte was a smuggler, an outlaw and now, a damned thief.
Damn it!
Evelyn quickly left the inn, before Trim might ask her in to a luncheon with his wife. Tears burned her eyes. Somehow, she must find a way to retrieve those sapphires, she thought, but even as determination filled her, the wiser part of her knew it was a lost cause. She had been taken, robbed.
And now what? She could not afford to lose those jewels; she had so little left. And Jack Greystone’s image loomed in her mind. She cursed, picking up the reins of her mare. This was his fault, she decided furiously. Evelyn knew she remained exhausted, not from lack of sleep, but from the fear over her daughter’s future, which gnawed at her constantly. She fought tears of sheer fatigue. She could not succumb to her desire to cry—she had to find the strength to solve this crisis.
An hour later, her mare trotted into Roselynd, gravel crunching beneath her hooves. Evelyn was grim. She intended to confront Whyte, one way or the other, and make him return her sapphires. She might even enlist Trim to help her. Perhaps, if a group of the villagers barraged him, he would return the sapphires.
She was not hopeful. As she parked the gig in front of the stables, Laurent came out of the house and hurried over to her.
He took one look at her and said, “What happened?”
Evelyn climbed down from the curricle and patted the mare. “I have been taken.”
Laurent groaned. “I knew you should not deal with common smugglers!”
“I gave Ed Whyte my sapphire ear bobs and the ring, and I have the terrible certainty I will never see him again.”
“Ahh, I knew you should have tried to approach Greystone again! He would not steal from you—he might be a smuggler, but he is a nobleman!”
She began to unhitch the mare from the traces. Laurent was right—he would never steal from her. But if only he knew what had really transpired, she thought. “Laurent, I told you that he refused me in no uncertain terms—after I begged and pleaded with him.”
Laurent led the mare into the barn, turning her into a box stall. She watched him as he latched the stall door and walked back outside. “But you are beautiful, you are a woman and you are in distress. No man could remain indifferent.”
She trembled, recalling their tense and then heated exchange—recalling his final indictment of her. “But he did walk away,” she said, aware that her cheeks were hot and probably red.
“Madame, what really happened? You have been miserable for days!”
Evelyn stared. If there was anyone she could confide in, it was Laurent. “I didn’t tell you everything. He mentioned that he found me very beautiful—but he was still about to refuse me. And…I kissed him.”
Laurent started. “You kissed him?”
She blushed, her heart racing wildly, as she waited for Laurent to point out that she had behaved most improperly. “I don’t know what overcame me, and then he kissed me back.” She laughed mirthlessly. “It was quite the kiss, but he refused me anyway.”
Laurent came to life. “That is odd!”
She didn’t want to reveal every detail, so she shrugged. “I regret the kiss—of course I do, as I am in mourning,” she said. Then, she said, “He seemed angry when he left.”
“You must be wrong! You are a sweet, kind woman, and so beautiful, you steal a man’s breath away!” Laurent said firmly. “He is the man for this mission, Countess. We both know how courageous he is—a
nd how skilled. And we are not talking about a few family heirlooms. We are talking about Aimee’s future. Therefore, it is time for you to mend fences—and approach him again.”
She choked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do you want to raise Aimee in splendor? Or in poverty?” he asked.
Evelyn sat down hard on the wood bench in front of the stables. “So I am to approach him again, without any pride? Beg him again? And then what?” She flushed instantly—imagining another heated encounter.
“Well, we both know you are not a wanton woman.” Laurent sat down beside her, taking her hands. “You should write him a very sincere note of apology. In it, you must also tell him he is welcome here, anytime.”
Evelyn looked at him carefully. “I may have kissed him, but he did kiss me back.” But should she apologize to him all the same? Would it make a difference? What if he accepted such an apology—so they could discuss matters?
“So? Men can be such fools—I happen to know.” Laurent smiled then. “I cannot tell you exactly what to write, as I was not there for your encounter. But we are a conceited lot, and we like it when we are right. Tell him you are so sorry if you offended him. It was hardly your intention. He will be pleased, Countess. And welcome him back to Roselynd.”
She stared. Could she actually write such a note of apology? A part of her was loath to do so, but she had behaved inappropriately. Still, so had he.
“Who else can you ask to go to France for you?”
She trembled. Damn it. Laurent was right. She needed Jack Greystone.
“You could point out that you are terribly confused right now—you have just lost your husband. Madame, I am certain you will find the right words to appeal to his male vanity. You could even tell him that he was right to refuse such an absurd advance on your part. He will love being told that!”
She wondered if Laurent was right. Most men would probably be enticed by such an apology, but she didn’t think Greystone was at all like most of his peers. However, she remained desperate. If he would not respond heroically, then she had no choice, really, but to attempt to manipulate him.
“And when he calls—and he will call—you won’t mention what you want of him. Trust me. He will quickly want to know why you aren’t begging him for his aid. You must play an opposite role—you are desolate, inconsolable. It has become hopeless.”
Evelyn stared, because the scenario Laurent was describing was starting to sound somewhat viable. “And maybe I could tell him I have given up. That it is too dangerous to go to Nantes, to my old home, to find an old chest—that no one could accomplish such a feat. And I must be resigned to my new circumstance.”
“Now you are being very clever,” Laurent said, kissing her on both cheeks in succession.
But would he insist that he could retrieve the chest? How would she know if she did not try? She thoroughly disliked the idea of playing games with Greystone, but she was desperate.
“I will write him,” she said, thinking carefully now. “And I will send the letter to one of his sisters.”
“You must deliver the letter yourself, so you can meet his sisters and befriend them,” Laurent said. “Lady Paget is married to the son of a great Frenchwoman—the Dowager Countess of Bedford was a friend of Henri’s, many years ago.”
Evelyn hadn’t known. “You have been making inquiries?”
“Of course I have. Aimee is like a daughter to me.”
Impulsively, Evelyn hugged him. “I am feeling just a bit better,” she whispered, meaning it. She was even excited—she hadn’t been to London in two years, and a trip from the moors suddenly seemed terribly overdue. And surely Lady Paget would be able to locate her brother. But she wasn’t about to allow herself to be hopeful. Instead, she felt a vast trepidation.
“And you may be even happier to know that you had a caller earlier—a gentleman caller—a very dashing one.” Laurent smiled. “He left a note.”
Evelyn started. “Who was it?”
“Lord Trevelyan,” Laurent said.
* * *
HIS SHIP SECURELY at anchor in the cove, Jack leaped out of the dinghy two of his men had been rowing to the shore. He was accustomed to such a maneuver, and he landed on the damp sand, without getting even the toes of his boots wet. “Go up to the tower and keep watch,” he ordered. “I will not be long.”
His men dragged the boat onto the sand, both of them scowling. He did not blame them. They had left Roscoff, France, at dawn, and they were looking forward to a reunion with their families. Most of his men lived in the small village of Looe, or its outskirts. They had been bound for Jack’s home on Looe Island, but he had abruptly decided to detour.
As his men vanished up a trail in the cliffs, Jack started up the wood steps leading to the house just above the cove. He had dropped anchor in this cove a hundred times, and even in the early evening darkness, he had no trouble making his way up the rough steps and the rocky path to Faraday Hall. Robert Faraday had been investing in his activities since Jack had had command of his first ship, eight years ago.
He had first met Faraday eight years earlier, in an inn in Bodmin. There, he had convinced the nobleman that the return on his investment would be well worth his while—and it had. Faraday was one of his most important patrons. He would be excited to learn about the high-quality Chinese silk in the Roscoff warehouses, which Jack intended to purchase on his next run. He knew Robert would want a piece of that pie.
And he told himself that that was the only reason he was trudging up to the back door of the house now. He did not give a damn that Evelyn D’Orsay had been raised at Faraday Hall. He had learned that she was Robert’s niece last week. When she had been driving all about Cornwall, making inquiries about him, he had made a few inquiries of his own.
Talk about life’s little coincidences! he thought grimly.
Of course, when he had first dropped anchor in this cove, Evelyn hadn’t been in residence at Faraday Hall—she had been a bride in Paris. Or perhaps she had been a newlywed in the Loire countryside. It did not matter.
She had been sixteen when she had married; he recalled her telling him that, very clearly.
Their paths might have crossed far sooner, had she not married the French comte.
He supposed that was a coincidence, too—or was it an irony?
He did not know why the idea bothered him. He did not know why she remained implanted so firmly in his thoughts. He had just had a very successful run to France. He had brought the French Republicans a shipload of woolens and metal grommets; he had then met one of Cadoudal’s lieutenants, relaying the information given him by Warlock, while also relaying ten dozen carbines, five dozen pistols and enough powder for three times as many weapons. Warlock had also arranged the weapons transfer.
He knocked on the kitchen doors in the back, wondering if he was a fool. Right now, he could be at his island home, a good scotch whiskey in one hand, a pretty village wench in his arms.
Except, he wasn’t exactly in the mood for a pretty village girl. Kicking at a rock, he waited rather impatiently, until a kitchen maid let him in. Redheaded and freckled, she blushed when she realized who he was. “Captain Greystone!” she breathed. “No one is expecting ye!”
Because he was annoyed, he gave her his fullest, most seductive smile. “Is Lord Faraday in?” He could not recall her name.
“He’s in the library, sir.” She smiled back, lashes lowered.
He was accustomed to good fortune, and hardly surprised that his host was within. He gestured and she led him through the house. He knew the way, but he followed her.
The mansion had been built twenty years earlier by Robert’s father, David Faraday. It was a fine home, built in the early Georgian style, with beige marble floors in the entry, and parquet floors throughout. Works of art covered the walls, and while not masterpieces, they were pleasant enough. Bronze busts graced pedestals in the hallway. The house was not overly furnished, but the salon had a large, beautiful coral-and-
blue rug from Persia, and other fine rugs graced the floors in the music room and library. Most of the furniture was custom-made. Gilded chandeliers hung from the ceilings. Robert had clearly amassed a small fortune over the years.
He thought about Evelyn, living in a mostly unfurnished house, desperate to hire him to go to France to retrieve some family heirlooms. Obviously she meant to sell them. How could her husband have left her and their daughter in such straits? It was truly a dereliction of duty—and not his affair. He sighed as the maid knocked on Robert’s door.
Faraday beamed when he saw him. “This is a pleasant surprise,” he exclaimed, coming forward. He was casually clad in a smoking jacket, and a cigar was burning in an ashtray, a glass of French brandy beside it.
Jack turned to thank the maid, and when she retreated, he closed the door behind him. The library was a large room with one wall of books, several seating areas and a large desk, behind which was a window looking out onto the cove. Facing Robert, Jack shook his hand. “I have just come from Roscoff. I decided to stop by on my way home, as I have just seen a warehouse filled with the kind of silk we haven’t glimpsed since before the war.”
Robert’s eyes brightened as he turned and poured Jack a glass of very fine French brandy—the kind Jack did not smuggle unless it was for himself. He then offered him a cheroot, which Jack accepted. These days, some of the best tobacco came from Virginia or the Carolinas, but when he inhaled, smiling with pleasure, he recognized it as being from somewhere else. “Is this Cuban?” he exclaimed.
“Yes, it is. You know I will participate.” Robert grinned. “I imagine we will have that silk sold before you even touch down on the beaches here.”
“I will make certain of it,” Jack said, exhaling. He began to relax, for there was nothing like a good cigar and brandy after a run across the Channel.
“Sit down, my boy,” Robert said, pulling up a big upholstered chair. Jack took it, stretching out his breeches and boot-clad legs, taking a sip of the brandy. It was old, French and excellent. Robert sat in the facing chair. “I have a small favor to ask of you.”
