by Shana Galen
She could have kissed him. Now would have been the perfect time for him to slip away, but he kept his promise. He did not leave her alone.
“Evans, will you send the tea tray? Miss Fournay has had quite a scare and could use a bit of fortification, I think.”
“Yes, sir.” The butler departed, and Collette sank into a chair. Hysteria churned within her. She had almost died, almost been killed today. Beaumont had saved her life. If he had acted even one second slower, she would have been dead. But she couldn’t think of that. She couldn’t allow what-ifs to enter her mind or she’d dissolve into a crying fit right here and now.
“You look a bit shaky, Miss Fournay,” Beaumont said. “I say we add brandy to the tea. Does Lady Ravensgate keep any in here?”
“As far as I know, she has none in the house at all. She drinks only wine and then only claret.”
“That is a travesty. Claret won’t keep you from falling apart.” He sat beside her on the couch. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine.” But the hand she lifted to smooth her hair back shook.
He caught it and held it firmly, linking her icy fingers with his warm ones. She was suddenly very, very cold. “Stay with me, Miss Fournay,” he said. “Take deep breaths.”
She nodded, her throat too choked for her to be able to speak.
“Are you certain there’s no brandy?”
She nodded again.
He shrugged. “Then I suppose there’s nothing else for it. I’ll have to kiss you.”
* * *
The look she gave him was half fear, half longing. He had been teasing, for the most part, but he could admit that if he hadn’t seen the fear, he might have taken her mouth right then. He certainly wanted to kiss her enough. He’d wanted to kiss her since he’d first stepped into Lady Ravensgate’s residence and Miss Fournay had been standing there in her proper white dress and stiff straw hat tied under her chin with prim blue ribbons.
Now, he held up both hands as though he meant no harm. “I was not serious. As your friend, I admit to worrying about you. You are so pale and shaky.” And he had only himself to blame for that. What the devil had he been thinking? Why had he agreed to Jasper’s scheme? Even knowing the driver of the cart had been paid to miss the lady, Rafe’s heart had jumped into his throat when he saw it bearing down on her. He’d saved her, as they’d planned, but if anything had gone wrong, she might have been seriously injured or killed.
Lady Ravensgate was fine. He’d shoved her out of the way, and she’d fallen on a soft patch of grass. Rafe was sorry she’d twisted her ankle, but if the Foreign Office had the right of it, the woman was a traitor and deserved far worse.
That meant Miss Fournay—rather, Fortier—was a traitor too. Rafe wasn’t quite so resigned to her inevitable fate.
“I only need a few minutes to gather my wits,” she said. “The tea will help.”
Brandy would have helped more, but he’d have to make do without it. He’d also have to make do without taking her into his arms. He had a mission, an assignment, and he could not afford to fail. His replacement might not be so civilized.
“I daresay it will. I could use some myself. I’ve seen carriage strikes from time to time, but the cart seemed to come straight for us.”
“What happened to the driver?”
“The bastard, forgive me, didn’t even stop. If I ever find him, he’ll be sorry. He must have been drunk or…” He paused, as though something had just occurred to him. “There isn’t any reason to think the man was heading for you, is there? There’s no one who would want you dead?”
Her face paled further, and Rafe had to keep his expression from changing to reflect the rush of disappointment he felt inside followed by the surge of fear for her. The woman had something to hide, something worth killing for, and Rafe wished to God that, for once, the Foreign Office and Draven had been wrong.
“Did I say something to upset you?” he asked.
“No.” She smoothed her hair back. Her hat had long since fallen from her head and dangled by the ribbons about her neck. Her hands shook violently as she reached for the ribbon to release the hat. But the silky blue trimming had knotted, and her hands were shaking too badly to grasp it, much less untangle it.
“Allow me,” he said. Before she could object, he took the flimsy ties in his hands and began to work on the knot. He could feel her trembling. Her body quaking under his hands. Her pulse beat against his knuckles, which lightly brushed her throat. Her skin was soft and warm, lush and ripe beneath the starched muslin of her dress. But he could not afford to think of that.
“The majority of snorting during hedgehog courtship originates from the sow.”
Rafe paused in his efforts. She must have been anxious if she was referring to hedgehogs again. “And the male? He is silent?”
She nodded. “For the most part, the boar does not snort, although there have been reports of boars snorting.”
“I can well imagine.” He freed one of the knots. “Can you think of any reason someone would want to kill you?” he asked casually, starting on the next knot in the ribbons.
“No!” But the answer was too hasty, too vehement to be believed.
“Good.” He loosened the other knot and lifted the hat away, placing it on the table beside the couch they occupied. “I wouldn’t want you to be in any danger.”
She bit her lip, looked at him, then looked away.
Come on, he thought. Tell me. Trust me.
“I can’t think of a single reason,” she finally answered, firmly though not convincingly. “It was an accident, nothing more.”
Evans entered with the tea tray, and Rafe served, noting she had to set her cup on the table since it shook so much. “Do try and drink,” he told her.
“I think I might feel better if I lie down.”
That was his dismissal. Rafe didn’t like it, but he didn’t have much choice. He took his leave and walked straight to his club.
After greeting Porter, Rafe ascertained that Phineas and Stratford were playing billiards while Neil was alone in the reading room. Since Jasper was not at the club and Rafe had no idea how to find the man, he headed to the reading room to join Neil. He needed to think and might have gone to one of the empty chambers, but he didn’t particularly enjoy being alone.
He entered the small chamber, which was paneled in dark wood with high-backed chairs flanking a crackling fire. He sat in a chair beside Neil, who briefly glanced up at him from some papers. Rafe didn’t bother to engage his friend in conversation. He stared into the fire and tried to scheme, a skill he lacked for the most part.
Finally, Neil lowered the paper. “I can hear you thinking. Stop before you hurt yourself.”
“Don’t you have a dozen orphans to harass?”
“Yes, but they aren’t as much fun to goad as you. In any case, Lady Juliana took them to the park today. Something about taking advantage of the sun or some such nonsense, and as I had business to attend to, I could not accompany her.”
“Business?”
“That’s right, and if you ever tell her any differently, I will shave your head and your eyebrows. Ewan will hold you down while I do it.”
The thought of himself bald made Rafe shiver. “Your secret is safe with me.” He went back to staring into the fire. Neil lifted his paper again. Rafe sighed and tapped his fingers on his chair. Finally, Neil tossed the paper down.
“Out with it.”
“I didn’t say—”
“Just say it already. I don’t have much time left, and the sooner I am rid of you, the sooner peace and quiet is restored.”
“Do you remember the French soldier we followed in Portugal? The courier?”
“Unfortunately.” It had been unfortunate for the courier as he’d ended up dead. But such was war.
“We followed him for ha
lf a day, and then when he made camp and fell asleep, Aidan relieved him of his courier’s bag.”
“We wanted to see the dispatches he carried.”
“It was cold and rainy,” Beaumont said.
“I recall because you complained without ceasing. Jasper was this close to accidentally shooting you in the foot so you’d really have something to complain about.”
“Very amusing.”
Neil’s face didn’t change expression, and Rafe wondered if perhaps he wasn’t kidding. “In any case,” he continued, “the weather distracted me somewhat. Seems like Aidan returned the bag, and we sent the courier on his way, waited for him, and then…” He drew a finger across his neck. “Why didn’t we just kill him after we’d stolen the contents of his satchel?”
“Who is this we?”
“Fine. Why didn’t you three kill him after you rifled his satchel?”
“Because then he wouldn’t have been able to deliver the false documents.”
Rafe nodded. “I remember something about that. You took the real papers he’d been carrying and replaced them with false ones.”
“Exactly. We carried the real ones, orders from Jourdan himself, back to Draven and Wellington.”
Rafe remembered gathering intelligence about Jourdan, who had been one of Napoleon’s most trusted and skilled military advisers. “And the false ones gave incorrect orders to the French.”
“They were to rendezvous with the core of the army, but we sent them in the other direction. A small thing, but by the time their general realized his mistake, he was too late to be of any service in the intervening battle. And that’s how wars are won.”
Rafe smiled and rose. Perhaps he was not so lacking in the ability to scheme after all.
“Now what are you doing?” Neil asked.
Rafe looked back over his shoulder. He had risen and was already halfway across the room. “I have a war to win.”
“This is a first.”
“Let’s hope it’s the last.”
Eight
Collette was panicking. She’d been to every salon, musicale, and fete Lady Ravensgate could wheedle invitations to, and still she had not been able to ascertain whether Draven had the codes and, if so, where they were kept. Although Lady Ravensgate’s ankle was still swollen, Collette had dragged the lady to this garden party today because it was her last hope. Draven had been invited and the hostess had intimated he would attend. But she hadn’t seen him yet, which meant the garden party was turning out to be as useless as the other social events she’d attended. The upper classes were ensconced at their country houses this time of year, and the clerks and assistants who might have known juicy tidbits were not invited to the same events as Lady Ravensgate. The only gossip Collette collected concerned the newest hairstyles and speculation about waistlines lowering next Season.
She wanted to cry and scream and rage at God at the injustice of it all. Instead, she pasted a serene expression on her face and pretended to admire the flowers and shrubs artfully arranged in the garden of the Mayfair mansion. It was often difficult to distinguish which were the more colorful—the blooms or the ladies’ dresses. The women strolled in their colorful muslins, twirling delicate parasols and fluttering painted fans. They were like chattering birds who made much noise and all of it signifying nothing.
Collette stayed as long as she could tolerate the scene, then angled herself away from the ladies and the refreshments. When she’d wandered far enough from the main party so as not to be noticed, she slipped behind a section of shrubbery and closed her eyes, squeezing back tears. Then, taking a shaky breath, she dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. She could not cry. She would not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing poor Miss Fournay weeping. It was bad enough she had a reputation for being painfully shy, a necessary thing and easy enough because she was naturally reticent, but she did not relish these Brits cooing over her and pitying her.
“I had hoped you would have the color back in your cheeks the next time I saw you” came a familiar voice. Collette opened her eyes, knowing she would see Rafe Beaumont. She was not disappointed, and he looked as handsome as ever in riding boots, tight breeches, and a close-fitting coat. He doffed his hat, revealing hair tousled and curling slightly beneath. His jaw had been freshly shaven again, and she found she missed the habitual stubble he wore. His eyes were the same mesmerizing shade of violet.
“I am feeling much better,” she said. “I just needed a moment. It has been a long day.”
“It has been a long week,” he said. “I called on you, but you weren’t at home.”
“I had shopping to do.”
He gave her a look that said he knew she was lying. Knew she had been avoiding him.
“You were too occupied to reply to my notes?”
“You must forgive me for that,” she said. “I have never been a very good correspondent.”
“I see. I feared our friendship was at an end. Are we still friends, Miss Fournay?”
She didn’t know how to answer. After that day at the museum, she’d needed to distance herself from him. Her already-confusing feelings for him had grown stronger. He had saved her life, after all. How was she not to feel grateful? And if gratitude had been all she’d felt, she would not have worried so much. But she was even more attracted to him than she had been. When he’d teased her about kissing her, she had wanted to say yes. She had practically begged him to do it.
He was a weakness, and she couldn’t afford a weakness right now. There were other ways to discover information about Draven. There had to be.
“Of course we are friends,” she said with a smile.
“I am glad to hear it. May I escort you back to the party?”
“Thank you.” She took his proffered arm.
“How is Lady Ravensgate? Has she recovered from her fall?” He led her past the shrubs and strolled slowly past the late-season flowers.
“Quite well, yes. She still favors that ankle and must elevate it, but it is growing stronger every day. You will see she is seated on a longue with her foot on a pillow. I fear she rather enjoys the attention and pretending she is a queen on her throne.”
He chuckled. “And how are you? Fully recovered?”
“I was not injured.”
“Yes, but you suffered a terrible scare…” His words trailed off as a servant in gold livery approached, carrying a silver salver. Instead of cups of tea or glasses of lemonade, the tray held a white envelope. “What is this?” Beaumont asked.
“Miss Fournay?” the footman asked.
“Yes,” she answered, her heart beginning to thud painfully in her chest. “What is it? Has Lady Ravensgate taken ill?”
“No, miss. This letter arrived for you. The boy who brought it said it was urgent.”
She took it off the tray, her gaze touching on Lady Ravensgate near the refreshment table, still reclining on her longue.
“Thank you,” she said, transferring her attention to the envelope. Then she looked at Beaumont, who appeared only mildly interested.
“My throat is parched. Would you like lemonade?” he asked.
“I…” She looked down at the note again.
He understood immediately. “You want to read your letter. Of course, you do. Shall I show you somewhere you won’t be disturbed? There’s a small gazebo just through those hedges. Shall I take you?”
“Please.” As usual, she was grateful to him. He led her through an opening in the hedges and along a worn path toward a small stone gazebo. The structure was covered with vines, some of them flowering, and inside were two stone benches. He led her into the center, seated her on a bench, and stepped away.
“I’ll wait over there for you,” he said. “That way you will have privacy.”
“You needn’t wait. I can find my way back.”
Horror crossed his face. �
�I would never leave a lady unaccompanied in the wilderness. I’ll be just over there should you need me.”
He strolled away and made a show of turning his back to her and studying a small tree. This was hardly wilderness, but Collette was glad he had not left her alone. It was late afternoon and the party would end shortly. Already the air had grown cooler and the sun was low in the sky, the last rays filtering through persistent clouds.
She opened the letter in her hands and read.
At first the words were incomprehensible to her. She had to read them three times before her terrified mind could take it in. The letter was ambiguous and mentioned her friend and an unfortunate change in his condition. But she understood well enough.
Her father. He was ill. He’d become sick while in prison and his condition was steadily worsening. The warden of the prison—he must have been the author—wanted to hear from her as soon as possible. She could only imagine that was because her father needed a nurse or the warden wanted her to send funds for medicine.
Send funds! Ha! The man would probably use them to line his own pockets and leave her father to shiver without so much as a blanket or straw pallet. She needed to free her father from the prison. She knew the men who could do it. They had promised her they would release him if she gave them the codes. Her hands shook, rattling the paper violently. She had nothing.
Her father would die in prison, and she would be all alone in the world.
She rose quickly, stumbled over the hem of her dress, and barely caught herself. She had to go, had to do something, had to find those codes! Even if it meant breaking into the Foreign Office tonight. She stumbled out of the gazebo, and Mr. Beaumont turned to face her, the smile on his face fading. “What is the matter?”
“Nothing,” she answered hastily. Even she knew she was unconvincing.
“Something has happened. You look as pale as a sheet.” He caught her arm, and she was grateful for the feel of his warm hand on her. She shivered with cold. “Was it something in the letter?” Beaumont asked. “Please, sit down.” He led her back to the gazebo. “You look unsteady, and if I catch you when you swoon, it will give the other ladies ideas. I simply can’t go through another month of having women fall over every time they see me.”
