by Brenda Joyce
Sometime later—she wasn’t walking quite as sprightly now—she had returned to the house. She briefly considered giving up her quest and waiting for Jack at the house, but she was afraid he might be gone for hours. She continued past the gardens and hedges. And when she passed the last hedge, she faced nothing but the black rocks which formed the perimeter of that side of the island.
Evelyn hesitated, for this side of the island was so inhospitable. The road led up that hill into those rocks, and it was a much rougher path than the previous one. She frankly did not know if she could navigate it, but she had been told that once she reached the top of the knoll, the road descended almost directly to the beach. How far could the beach be?
Evelyn folded up her cloak and laid it on a boulder that was twice her size. Then she started grimly up the road, tripping now and then on the rocks and ruts. She was quickly out of breath. She would surely break a heel. She was probably getting blisters. She debated turning around.
But she was almost at the top of the hill. Evelyn increased her pace, panting, and finally arrived at the crest of the black rock knoll.
And she stared ahead. The view was magnificent, the ocean seeming to stretch out into infinity, sparkling silver in the sunlight. She even thought she saw specks in the distance, which she assumed where ships crossing the Channel.
She glanced down at the beach below the hill and froze.
Jack stood a hundred feet below her—speaking to another man.
Her eyes widened as she saw the small dinghy lying on the beach in the ocean’s shallow water. A larger ship, perhaps a cutter, sat anchored not far from the shore.
Who was Jack meeting? Her heart slammed. He must be engaged with another smuggler. There was no other sensible explanation!
She thought about turning around. Then she dismissed the notion—she knew he was a smuggler, so there was nothing to hide.
Evelyn started down. The road had become a narrow, steep, winding path, very much like a gorge, between the rocks and cliffs. It was treacherous, commandeering all of her attention, and the cliffs quickly obfuscated her view. She could not see the beach, the two men or the ocean. Black rock formed walls on either side of her, but above her head, the sky was bright.
Evelyn finally reached the very foot of the path, perhaps a half an hour later. She paused, panting hard, and partially collapsed against a boulder. She realized that she had been a fool to go down such a route. From where she stood, she could glimpse a part of the sandy beach, and just a bit of the tide. Inhaling, she stepped past the boulder.
And she saw Jack and the other man. They hadn’t seen her yet, and while she could hear their muted voices, she could not make out any of the conversation. She was surprised—the other man was most definitely not a smuggler—unless he also came from a good family. For the stranger wore the clothing of a gentleman. He was clad in a tan coat and pale breeches, his dark hair tied in a queue.
As she looked at the stranger, she was alarmed. He seemed familiar. But that was impossible, wasn’t it?
Both men had their backs to her, as they faced the ocean. Suddenly the wind shifted, blowing hard, and Evelyn’s skirts flew up. She caught them as she heard Jack say, “I told you. I do not know when it will take place.”
“That is hardly helpful!” the stranger replied.
Evelyn froze—she knew that voice!
The stranger continued, his French accent thick, “How many men will D’Hervilly muster?”
“Three or four thousand,” Jack said promptly. “But your problem will come from the Chouans. Cadoudal will have as many as ten thousand rebels, if not more.”
The stranger cursed in French. Evelyn stared widely at the two men now. She did not know who Cadoudal was, but were they speaking of the infamous Comte D’Hervilly? He was a well-known émigré, one constantly begging the British government for its support against the French government in the French countryside, where rebellions were taking place. Had she heard correctly? But what were they talking about?
“A rebel army of fifteen thousand will be easily defeated.” The Frenchman shrugged. “But we must know when the damned invasion will take place. Gossip has it they will invade Brittany—find out.” It was an order.
She began to shake. They were talking about a Chouan rebel army—which the French would defeat. She knew who the Chouans were—they were the peasants and noblemen who continued to wage a rebellion against the French republic in La Vendée, from its hills and valleys, its farms and villages. Recently the French government had begun to seriously suppress them.
She could not breathe adequately now. She tried to comprehend what she had heard—when she was afraid of what she might think. They had also been talking of an invasion of Brittany. D’Hervilly would have three or four thousand men—that sounded like an émigré army!
Were they discussing an invasion of Britanny by émigré and British forces?
And had Jack been ordered to discover—and divulge—British military plans?
Surely, she had misheard! Surely, she did not understand! She could not think clearly now!
“Has my contact changed?”
“No, it has not,” the Frenchman said. Too late, Evelyn realized that she had cried out the moment Jack had made his last comment. And the stranger whirled, facing her—instantly seeing her.
And now, Evelyn realized that she was staring at Victor LaSalle, the Vicomte LeClerc, who had been her neighbor in Paris in the summer of 1791—who had been imprisoned that summer, as an enemy of the state, just before she had fled Paris with her family. In shock, she stared.
As shocked, he stared back.
And real comprehension began. Why was LeClerc asking Jack about an invasion of France—if that was what he was doing? And how was it that he had survived the charges leveled against him? How had he survived a French prison?
“Evelyn!” Jack started up the beach, toward her, smiling. She did not move, because his smile was entirely false—it did not reach his eyes.
Somehow, she smiled back. “Hello! I heard you were walking on the beach and I had hoped to join you!”
He took her hand and kissed it. “Did you sleep well?”
“Very.” What had she interrupted? What was she to think?
There was only one conclusion. LeClerc was a Republican now. Jack was a French spy. They had been discussing a British invasion of France!
Their gazes met, but she could not see into his gray depths. They were flat and cold. His expression was tight and hard, in spite of the fixed smile. “Have I disturbed your…meeting?” She continued to smile, her heart racing with fear. Jack could not be a spy!
“You could never disturb me,” Jack said lightly. “May I introduce you to an old friend?”
Evelyn trembled. She had been using LeClerc’s name when she had fled France four years ago, and surely Jack recalled that. But she could have picked his name out of a hat. He would not know that they were acquainted, would he? She finally met the Vicomte LeClerc’s eyes, which were even colder than Jack’s. She wet her lips nervously.
“Do not bother,” he said. “I am well acquainted with the comtesse. Bonjour, Evelyn. Ça va bien?”
They had never been on a first-name basis—they had socialized once or twice. “Monsieur le Vicomte. Thank God you escaped prison. We fled France, shortly after your incarceration. I never expected to see you again. This is a…wonderful…surprise.”
“I imagine not. And I certainly never expected to see you again, Comtesse.” He took her hand and kissed it. “I heard about Henri. I am so sorry for your loss.”
She was afraid to ask him about his wife and children. He smiled and said, “They did not survive. My wife was arrested several days after I was, and she was taken to the guillotine. My sons eventually suffered the same fate.”
She inhaled. “I am sorry.”
LeClerc said, “I cannot imagine how you found your way to this island. Or should I even ask?”
Jack said, his odd smile fixed
in place, “The countess is my guest.”
“Obviously. Well, I do hope you are enjoying the amenities my friend is offering.” He seemed amused. “I am off, Greystone.”
Jack gave her a look. “Wait here.”
Evelyn nodded stiffly. She had no intention of moving—not unless she was told to do so.
Jack and LeClerc walked toward the dinghy, neither one speaking. The vicomte got into the rowboat, lifting the oars, while Jack pushed it into the water. When it was rocking on the waves, and Jack was knee-deep in the surf, they spoke briefly. Of course, Evelyn could not hear a word they were saying.
Tears abruptly filled her eyes and blurred her vision. LeClerc was alive—and she was glad. But if she had understood correctly, Jack had been betraying his country. Oh, God. She had to be wrong. This could not be happening.
She hugged herself, watching as Jack turned the dinghy so it faced the waiting ship and then gave it a shove. LeClerc began to row. Jack turned, wading through the water toward her. Surely he would begin to smile, surely he would embrace her, tell her he loved her—and explain what she had heard.
He waded out of the water, onto the beach, his face hard and set. She closed her eyes in dread.
“How much did you overhear?”
Her eyes flew open. “So much for a lover’s reunion.”
His face tightened. His gray gaze heated. “I haven’t forgotten last night, Evelyn. Are you trying to distract me?”
She shook her head, and she felt a tear spilling down her cheek. “I woke up so happy.”
He began shaking his head. His eyes flashed. “Yes, I imagine you were happy, and do not attempt to dissuade me! How long were you standing there—listening to us?”
Through her tears, she stared at him. “Why were you discussing le Comte D’Hervilly? Why were you discussing the Chouans? Who is Cadoudal?” She was breathing hard.
He cursed, not once, but several times.
“How did LeClerc escape Le Razor? It took the rest of his family!” she cried.
“How do you think?” he roared.
She cringed. She knew how he had escaped execution! “He is a republican, isn’t he? He turned on his friends, his family, swore his loyalty to la Patrie… He is not the first to do so!” She was sobbing now. She had not met his sons, but she had met his lovely wife. She could not recall the pretty blonde vicomtesse clearly, but she was now dead, so did it even matter?
“You shouldn’t have come down to this beach,” he cried. “And when you saw LeClerc, you should have left!”
“We made love last night! Are you a spy?” How was this happening? How? She clenched her fists.
His eyes continued to blaze. He finally said, “We did not make love, Evelyn.”
She hit him, hard, across the face. “You are a French spy!”
He stepped back, as if reeling from her blow. Red blossomed on his cheek. “I suggest that you forget what you saw and heard today. Let’s go back to the house. And I will take you home.” He gestured angrily at the rocky path.
She refused to move. “Oh! You haven’t denied it! But you deny making love!” Was she about to weep? Of course she was—a knife was stabbing through her heart, and he was the one wielding it!
“I told you,” he said softly, his anger now tightly reined, “that I would break your heart. I just did not realize it would be the morning after!”
She wanted to strike him again. “How can you betray your country? My country? Aimee’s?”
His stare sharpened. “But you already know, Evelyn. I have no conscience. I am a rogue and a mercenary. Let’s go.” He seized her elbow and half dragged her to the road.
She pulled her arm free. She did not want to believe him, but she had not misheard. Jack Greystone was a goddamned French spy. “Damn you.”
His eyes widened and she thought he flinched. “Well said. Now let’s go.”
She rushed past him; he followed.
* * *
SHE HARDLY HAD ANYTHING to pack.
In tears, Evelyn folded her underclothes from the previous day and stuffed them into her valise. Her used stockings followed. Then she folded her dark gray dress and added that to the small bag, too. She had already packed her nightgown and robe, though she felt like burning both garments.
Jack was a French spy. She had worried that that might be the case, but now, it was like ice water thrown in her face. No, it was like gunpowder exploding in her heart.
She had been falling in love. She had woken up that morning, delirious with joy. She had believed, from the bottom of her heart, that Jack was a great man—a hero. He was intelligent, ambitious, powerful. He was strong and brave. He could outrun any navy. He was a smuggler, but it was a way of life for a man like him. And he had saved her life, and her daughter’s, four years ago in France. Of course he was a hero, a man she could admire and depend on.
But she had been wrong, hadn’t she? And it was as if she had viewed him in a bubble, and that bubble had now burst. He was aiding her enemies, Henri’s enemies and Aimee’s enemies. He wasn’t a great man—he was a traitor.
She was so sick now and not just in her heart, but in her stomach. She was going to have to reconcile her view of the Jack she had believed in—the man she had taken as a lover—and the one she had overheard on the beach. But how, exactly, was she going to do that, when a part of her was protesting furiously? A part of her wanted an explanation—one that would make that afternoon go away—as if it had never happened!
But she knew what she had heard. He had told the French about a British invasion of Britanny. He had peddled military secrets. Had he been well paid? Justly rewarded? His services were expensive!
She sank onto the foot of the bed, more tears arising. How could this be happening? Last night, they had made love. This morning, she had gone down to the beach to find him and leap into his arms. She began to laugh, bitterly. But her lover was a spy—he was actually her enemy!
Of course he was. After all, she had no experience when it came to taking lovers, otherwise, she would have sensed something amiss; she would have known better! She surely would have considered the fact that everyone in Britain knew he ran the British blockade, and was wanted for treason!
Her heart should not be broken and she should not be surprised.
It was so hard to think clearly, when she was in such anguish. Would D’Hervilly and the British troops accompanying him be massacred because of what Jack was doing? She did not know much about war, but only a fool would think that the count and the British would land in France safely now. French troops would probably be waiting for them.
Shouldn’t she tell someone, anyone, what she knew? Shouldn’t she go to the authorities?
“Are you ready?” Jack asked coldly.
She slowly turned and stared at him as he stood in the doorway of her bedchamber. His face was taut, his eyes dark and flat. He was clad for travel in his dark brown wool jacket. She slowly stood up. “I was falling in love with you.”
His expression tightened. “I never wanted your love, Evelyn, and I never expected it.”
How his words hurt! “My God, you meant it, didn’t you? When you said our desire was just lust.”
His eyes blazed and he did not answer her.
“I don’t understand,” she said, sickened. And she was not referring to what she had just said. “I will accept that you are a cad, a rogue, a man who takes lovers unconscionably—” and his face hardened “—but you have an entire family whom you adore, and they are all British. Dear God, Julianne’s husband was in France, fighting the revolution! When you give state secrets to the French, you are not only betraying your country, you are betraying them.”
“You are leaping to conclusions,” he warned.
“I know what I heard. Comte D’Hervilly has amassed an émigré army, and he will be meeting a Chouan army—after invading France.” She wiped at fresh tears as they arose. “And you will soon tell LeClerc precisely when they will invade—won’t you?”
>
He moved. His strides were like pistons as he approached, his face enraged. Evelyn cringed as he seized her arm. “You have one choice, Evelyn, and I mean it. You are to forget every damned word you heard.”
Was he threatening her? “And if I cannot?” she cried. “If I go to the authorities?”
“Then you are placing your life in jeopardy!” he exclaimed shaking her. “Swear to me now that you will forget this day. Swear it!”
She shook her head, crying. “You mean, I am placing your life in jeopardy?”
He lifted her chin. “No, I meant exactly what I said. My life is already in jeopardy, Evelyn. If you tell anyone about this, you are placing your life in danger. I am looking after you, damn it. I do not want you hurt by any of this.”
“I don’t believe you,” she managed. “I just don’t know what to believe!” Was he now, absurdly, incredibly, trying to protect her? Or was he trying to protect himself?
“You might believe in me,” he said harshly.
She froze. “Deny it, then. Explain it away.”
He stared. And when he spoke, he was calmer. “I am not a French spy. You misheard—because you did not hear the entire conversation. I am asking you to give me the benefit of the doubt—because you care about me.”
She stared incredulously. Was she supposed to believe him? She knew what she had heard—what she had seen! Was she supposed to trust him? Because she wanted to trust him! And he was now using the fact that she cared—that she was falling in love with him—to gain her compliance. “That’s not fair,” she whispered.
He stared, hard. “Nothing is fair.”
Nothing is fair in a time of war, she thought. He had said so last night.
“I can see that you have doubts. What if you are wrong, Evelyn? How will you feel if you go to the authorities, accusing me of treason, if I am innocent—when I am the man you love?”
“Don’t play me!”
“Then don’t play war games!”
She stood, shaking. “And what if I am right? What if you are giving the republicans our military secrets? What then? British soldiers—and émigrés—will die!”
