by Ruth Axtell
She sat gazing at the other patrons in the crowded restaurant. French people tended to eat out much more than their British counterparts. Restaurants and cafés abounded in the city, Rees had quickly found.
A waiter approached their table. After conversing with him a few moments, they made their selections, Rees content to follow his companion’s recommendations.
When the waiter departed, Lady Wexham turned to him. “It is plain fare, but I think you will like it. Their fish and game are very fresh. And their wines are good.”
He wondered whether she came here often and with whom.
“Your French is very good,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“You hid that fact well all the time you were in my household.”
He didn’t know whether she was angry or teasing him. She had kept her feelings concealed up to now. “It wasn’t always easy, believe me, especially when we were at Hartwell House.” He eased back in his chair, curious himself. “How long before you knew I was not a real butler?”
“Not long.” She shrugged. “Valentine alerted me that you were not all you appeared.”
“Of course.”
She paused, taking a sip of her wine. “You made an enemy of her.”
“Yes, I realized that. How is she?”
“She is well—as well as can be expected in a city that has known nothing but shortages for too many years.” She shrugged. “She will survive. That is what she does best.”
“Does she still . . . work for you?”
“Not precisely. She still lives with me and insists on looking after me. But I have told her she must find herself a new occupation. I think she will open a shop.”
He digested this information, wondering if it was a matter of Lady Wexham’s not being able to afford a lady’s maid. “And Gaspard?”
Her smile grew wider. “He has opened a restaurant of his own. I should take you there.”
He returned her smile, feeling for the first time that something of the walls that separated the two had fallen a fraction. “Yes. You should have told me and we could have gone there tonight.”
Then his smile disappeared. The fact that she kept neither chef nor lady’s maid pointed to reduced circumstances.
Her expression also sobered. “First I needed to find out for myself whether you were . . . sent by the British.”
“I see.” He rubbed a hand across his jaw, wishing he could prove to her that they were no longer on opposing sides. “I was not. They are no longer after you.”
She looked at him a long moment as if weighing whether to believe him. “Perhaps not, yet they run this city for all intents and purposes. While Louis sits on his throne and does whatever the British tell him.”
“You cannot blame England if it wants to see some stability in France before it leaves.”
“I suppose not.” She gazed at a point over his shoulder. “I sometimes wonder if the regime they have installed here will not be worse than anything previous.” Her golden eyes were somber. “The royalists are out for blood—the blood of anyone they judge to have been either a Bonapartist or a Jacobin.”
“That is precisely one of the things Wellington is here to prevent.”
She sat back and folded her hands upon the tablecloth. “So, tell me what you have been about since I left London.”
“I think perhaps I should first tell you how I came to be in your household.” If he hoped for her trust, and any future with her, he had to be truthful about his past dealings with her.
“Very well.” Her tone gave nothing away.
He recounted how he had been offered the opportunity to spy on her in exchange for a chance at advancement in the foreign office.“I soon discovered that hard work and merit play very little part in how promotions are given out.”
She toyed with her spoon. “So, you had to agree to something that was not palatable to you?”
Feeling himself diminish in her estimation with this part of his narration, he forced himself to answer truthfully. “Yes. I know now it was not honest, but I also wanted to protect my country. Too many men have died.”
“I understand,” she said softly, and in that moment, hope stirred in his chest. He clenched his hand to keep from reaching across the table and taking her hand in his.
“I did not want to believe that a lady as beautiful . . . and intelligent and amiable as you could be involved in spying on the British.” He cleared his throat, having trouble keeping his thoughts clear as he watched the expressions flit across her eyes—surprise, amusement, sympathy. “Not when you had lived the major part of your life in England and called it home,” he added.
She looked at her hands as if acknowledging what she’d done. “Yes, it was my home, and I would not have done anything to—to harm it.” She bit her lip. “But a Frenchman convinced me that Napoleon’s armies would not survive long, and I had . . . a duty to help with the future.” Her troubled eyes met his once more. “The Comte de Provence was the worst possible choice for France, but he was the only one the British would consider. They are so afraid of revolution on their own shores that they are content to suppress all democracy across the Channel.”
She looked away again. He had the sense she had more to stay, so he remained silent.
His patience was rewarded. “But that is not the only reason,” she said in so low a tone he had to lean forward to catch her words. She swallowed, as if unable to continue.
“It happened when you were seventeen and returned here, didn’t it?”
Her eyes widened. Then collecting herself, she took a deep breath, as if delving into the past took all her effort. “Yes. I told you I fell in love with a young soldier. It was not my choice—or his—for me to leave him, or France. My mother discovered the attachment and forced me back to England.” Her voice grew flat. “You see, her ambition was that I must marry a wealthy gentleman. She had lost everything during the Revolution and her only hope lay in me, her daughter.”
Her lips twisted. “So, I know what it is to be obliged to do something that goes against one’s inclinations.”
She had been forced into marriage. The realization shifted all he knew of her. Mere events listed by dates in a file had done no justice to the tale of a young woman whose mother had pinned her whole future on her daughter’s marriage, an eighteen-year-old who bore the responsibility of providing not only for her mother’s future but for that of her French servants as well.
As she filled in the details of the things he’d read in her dossier, his heart went out to the young woman who had had to give up her first—her true—love for the sake of an ambitious mother. “I was a prize on the Marriage Mart that year.” She emitted a humorless sound. “Maman even managed to procure a coveted invitation for me to Almack’s through Princess Esterhazy. I’m sure she has some tenuous claim to relationship if we trace our lineage back far enough.”
“That is when you met the Earl of Wexham.”
She nodded.
The waiter interrupted them, laying out a tantalizing array of hot dishes.
“Roast quail,” Céline explained with a graceful motion of her hand. “A roebuck pâté with a gooseberry compote, trout with a truffle ragout, an artichoke pie, side dishes as you see.”
He inhaled. “Smells delicious.” Rees hesitated then asked, “Would you permit me to say grace?”
She inclined her head in assent.
“Dear Lord, thank You for leading me to Lady—Mlle. de Beaumont. Please bless our evening together, as well as this food we are to partake of. In Your precious name we pray, Lord Jesus.”
He looked up before taking up his cutlery to gauge her reaction.
She was unfolding her thick napkin. “I think if you are having such trouble remembering my name, you should call me by my given name.”
He swallowed, feeling another wall between them come down. “Céline,” he ventured.
She smiled.
“If you will call me by mine.”
He w
aited, breathless, for her to utter the word.
“Rees.”
He released his breath, realizing he’d waited a long time to hear his real name on her lips.
“I like your name.”
“It’s Welsh. My grandmother on my father’s side was Welsh. It was a family name from one of her relations. But I use the English spelling.” He fell silent, realizing he was talking too much.
But she didn’t seem to mind from the way she was listening.
She took up her fork. “So, you are thankful for having found me. You said you were searching for me?”
She had listened to his prayer. “Yes, I was. But please, I’m more interested in your story before I get back to mine.”
“Very well.” She gestured toward his plate. “Please, don’t let your food get cold.”
They ate for a few moments before she resumed. “I had many admirers that first season. But as one quickly discovers, very few make a serious pursuit once the parents inquire into a young lady’s dowry and expectations. I was but a poor émigré.
“That did not weigh with the earl. He was wealthy enough to choose whichever bride struck his fancy. He had already been married once, in his youth.” She paused, looking down at her place. “He had only one overriding concern.”
He remembered her dossier and could hazard a guess. “He needed an heir.”
24
Céline stared across the candlelit table at Rees. “Yes.” Was her barrenness so evident, even to him? She thought she’d grown used to this failure, but seeing the knowledge in his eyes reminded her afresh.
He coughed behind his napkin. “Forgive me, but when I . . . I chose to accept the task of going into your household, they gave me a file to read.”
“You know all about me then?” Somehow hearing it from his lips made it harder to bear.
He shook his head, his smile rueful. “Hardly that. I know facts, facts that anyone can discover with a little digging. I know you married the earl at the age of eighteen after your first season, and I know he died childless.”
She moistened her lips, somewhat appeased. “You can imagine then how important it was for him to marry a healthy young woman of impeccable pedigree who would produce a healthy male child.”
“As far as anyone in my station can imagine such a thing, yes.”
She smiled faintly at the irony in his tone. “You have never given an heir any thought, Mr.—Rees?”
He set his fork and knife down on the edge of his stoneware plate before answering. “Not in terms of an ‘heir.’ Like any man, I would like to have children someday with my wife.”
Of course, he would. Another reason she must never think of a future with him. She shook away the instant of self-pity and forced another smile. “Would you? Yet you’ve delayed your marriage.”
“I was never betrothed,” he reminded her.
She remembered his words to her that afternoon in his bedroom. “I thought only financial considerations were keeping you from proposing.”
He fingered his napkin, his words hesitant. “I had desired to be married and have a . . . a family. But I had never met the woman with whom I wished to share my life.”
When she raised her brows in disbelief, he hastened, “It is true, there was a young lady. She was a close friend of my younger sister,” he continued, “and I had watched her grow up. I respected and admired her greatly, and as my situation in life improved where I could finally think about marriage, she seemed an ideal candidate.”
“But?” she ventured softly when he paused.
“I wasn’t in love with her.”
He held her gaze, and she found herself spellbound by what she saw in his smoke-gray eyes. “No?” she whispered.
“When you left . . . I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I had no hopes of ever being able to come over here after the war—not after having compromised my spying assignment so thoroughly.”
His words reminded her of the reality of his role in her life. “Compromised? I wouldn’t say so. I would say you have done very well for yourself.” She eyed his evening clothes, which sat very well on him.
A flush spread on his cheeks but his gaze didn’t waver. “On the contrary, I never betrayed you to my superiors.”
“No?”
“I never told them I had proof of your spying activity, that you had undoubtedly fled to France knowing both the French and the Home Office were after you. I merely gave my superior the bare minimum of information and let them come to their own conclusions.” He gave a bark of laughter. “I went so far as to say you had gone to France when you’d received a message from a sick relative.” He shook his head. “If they’d ever wanted another spy, they certainly would not have needed one as gullible as I.”
Her heart pounded in her chest. “Why did you do that for me?” she whispered.
“I think you know the answer to that.”
They continued gazing at each other. Before she could gather her wits, his mouth crooked upward. “I never thought I would be given the chance to come to France and find you. Yet it didn’t stop me from asking to be sent here. No one was more surprised than I when my superior gave his approval.” He shrugged. “Perhaps my knowledge of French—and the fact that I was well qualified for clerical duties—convinced them I’d be useful on Wellington’s staff.” He paused. “My only goal was to look for you.” His gaze traveled from her face to her hand. “Though I expected to find you spoken for.”
“It is bare, you see.”
He cleared his throat. “After you left, I went to . . . visit this young lady . . . and I spoke very candidly with her. Even though there had been no declarations between us, I admired and respected her as a dear friend, and I . . . I didn’t want her to hold out any hope that I might . . . someday offer her marriage.” He swallowed, his stilted words reflecting his difficulty with the topic.
Céline tried to picture this young lady—far younger than her now twenty-nine years, she was bound. She felt a sudden, irrational jealousy for this unnamed woman. “What was her name?”
He looked surprised at the question, and Céline wished she had not asked it. Finally, he replied, “Jessamine.”
“What a beautiful name.” She hated it. “It’s lovely.”
She was being childish. In an effort to get hold of her emotions, she said, “That was kind . . . and brave of you, Rees. A woman does not like to be kept waiting, and it was unfair to keep her hopes alive if she indeed was expecting a declaration.”
“My sister had always encouraged the suit and perhaps had spoken to her about it. I’m afraid I may have hurt her, but it was unintentional though not excusable—”
He was a noble man. She couldn’t help admiring his behavior. “You cannot marry someone you do not love.”
“No.” The way he was looking at her told her he was no longer referring to himself. “You know that from experience, do you not?”
She looked down. “Yes.” A moment later, she let out a shuddering breath. “If it had not been for Valentine’s shoulder to cry on after I received word of Stéphane’s death, I don’t know what would have become of me.”
This time he reached for her hand on the table and covered it with his own. She remained still, although she felt the touch of his warm hand throughout her body.
“I went about in a state of numbness for a long time. I didn’t care what happened around me. When my mother insisted I accept the earl’s suit, I thought it would at least help my mother out—and end the drama of another season for me. I had vowed never to go through that again.”
He waited as if for more. But she didn’t want to talk of her marriage. After a moment he bent to his plate again.
They ate in silence. When the waiter came to remove their dishes, Rees thanked him and sent his compliments to the chef.
Céline shook her head with a smile. “I cannot accustom myself to your command of French.”
“I learned most of it in one of your prisons.”
Sh
e gasped softly. “You were a prisoner of the French?”
He sat back in his chair. “I told you the truth when I said I had been in the navy. What I left out was that I was captured off your coast. Our ship sank. I survived and was taken prisoner by your people. I suspect my French is not of the finest variety.”
Now she began to see more. “It sounds quite polished to me.”
“I had a French governess as a child, but it was during that year in prison that I grew proficient. It was only because of the brief peace that I was released and able to come home.”
She gestured toward his chest. “When you were shot in the shoulder, I noticed a scar.”
He glanced downward. “Yes. It was a nasty sword wound.”
Leaning her chin in her hand, she smiled faintly. “I always wanted to ask you how you obtained the scar on your chin. Was it also during your time in the navy?”
He fingered the area on his chin. “Yes. Another fight on deck, this from a knife blade. I didn’t think it noticeable.”
“Not unless a person is very close to you.”
Her breath caught at the look in his eyes. Was he, too, thinking about their kiss?
Rees left Céline, his mind and heart full. He spent the next hour walking the streets of Paris, knowing he would not be able to sleep for a long time. Thankfully, Céline had agreed to see him again on the morrow. This time, she had asked him to meet her at the Jardin du Luxembourg on the Left Bank. She promised to take him to Gaspard’s restaurant afterward.
For the first time, he felt hopeful that maybe he had a chance with her. He could scarcely imagine that she might care for him, but he felt that at least he could begin to court her as a proper suitor. He was relieved in a way that she appeared in reduced circumstances. He wanted to provide for her, take care of her, even if it would not be in the manner she had been accustomed to.
