B’God, he had missed his calling. He should have been a reverend who counseled the newlywed. “Jane. And you call me Fitz.”
“Fitz…you think I can trust him?”
“With your life.”
She pressed her flattened palms to her heart. “I was more worried about his fidelity.”
“You can trust him with that, too.”
Chapter 27
Blackburn filled a plate for Jane and started back across the ballroom, watching the throng around Adorna the entire time. All those gentlemen—all those suspects—hung on her every word as if they were coined in gold. Perhaps one of them would ask to hear a particular French phrase, and rather than hearing the passage Monsieur Chasseur had selected, he would take note of Blackburn’s abridged version.
Blackburn avoided a tipsy matron.
And perhaps not. Since working for Mr. Smith, Blackburn found himself imagining plots at every turn, but this one seemed a little outlandish even to him. It was surely a mediocre way to pass messages.
Yet using Adorna’s poor French as code might be only one of the methods used to relay information, and if Blackburn had broken the first link of the French Intelligence chain, perhaps the remaining links could be deduced.
He glanced again at Adorna. If what he hoped was true, he should leave her alone to speak to whoever desired it.
And he would go back to court his wife.
Jane held herself rigidly erect as the carriage lurched through the dark London streets on the way from the reception. She didn’t want to fall against Blackburn. She hadn’t voluntarily touched him since their hurried wedding. Yet Fitz’s assurances clung to her mind, and she didn’t know what to think. Fitz admired Blackburn, that much was clear, and it was also clear he did so without illusion. After vouching for Blackburn’s good character, he had then regaled her with tales of their early life together, laughing at every manifestation of Blackburn’s insufferably superior attitude.
She’d laughed, too, for the first time in a fortnight, and laughed harder when she’d looked up to see Blackburn, holding a plate and cup, glowering down at her.
So now she was in a quandary. Give up her grudge against Blackburn and admit that maybe, just maybe, he had married her because he wanted to do the right thing, because he desired her, and because he…liked her.
Or remain disgruntled. And how long could she keep that up? She was a practical woman with a basically pleasant nature. She knew she couldn’t continue forever with this coldness to her husband…especially when she loved him so.
She stared into the darkness pooling at her feet.
Yes, she loved him with all her wretchedly consistent heart.
So she would allow herself to let go of her anger, and if that little bit of hope crept in, that hope that he would someday love her back…well, she wouldn’t encourage it. But she wouldn’t deny it, either.
“Jane, you never told me you were taking art lessons.” His voice sounded smooth and warm, like syrup heated before the fire.
Automatically she went on the defensive. “I only took a few.”
“Monsieur Bonvivant seemed impressed with your talent.” Blackburn didn’t sound revolted by her gift.
“Yes. Well…yes, so he said.”
“How did you find this foremost art teacher from France?”
“When de Sainte-Amand met me, he recognized me from an early painting I’d done.” She didn’t mean to brag about her early work; Blackburn might take it badly. “You remember.”
“In Susan’s garden.”
“Yes. De Sainte-Amand invited me to his home to meet Monsieur Bonvivant.” The excitement she’d felt! The fear and anticipation! “I couldn’t resist. When he said he’d seen and admired my work, I was so flattered.” She realized she was burbling, remembering that moment when Monsieur had fixed her with his large, long-suffering eyes and uttered the first official words of praise she’d ever heard.
Embarrassed, she stopped talking.
Blackburn turned toward her and slid his arm behind her on the seat. “Tell me more.”
He seemed almost encouraging, but Jane knew better. All proper English gentlemen were uncomfortable with her talent, Blackburn with more reason than most. “I went when I could, and he taught me so much in just a few hours. I was excited, I wanted to tell everyone, but I’ve never been encouraged…” To revel in my talent. No, she couldn’t say that. That sounded like whining, and it wasn’t that she pitied herself. Only that she’d been practical and accepted what had to be done, just as generations of women had done before her. “That’s all.”
His hand rubbed her arm through her sleeve. “So you will continue.”
Straining her eyes through the obscurity of night, she tried to read his expression, but she could see only the faint glisten of his eyes. He sounded carefully neutral, and she used the same tone when she answered. “I would like to, but I understand if it’s not possible.”
He shifted her toward him. “We have those future generations to think about.”
“I don’t expect to be a master, but—”
Lowering his head, he spoke softly in her ear. “I was talking about the future generations of Quincys.”
“Oh.” Air swirled along the sensitive whorls, and goose bumps rose on her skin. “You mean children.”
“Our children.” His lips touched the tender spot on her neck just along her hairline. “You wouldn’t neglect them.”
“Neglect?” Disappointment quivered through her. He didn’t want her to paint. He didn’t want her to sculpt. She knew that; the man had been subjected to ridicule because of her work. This came as no surprise.
He wanted her to be his wife, to bear his babies, to devote herself to the family to the exclusion of all else. She wanted that, too, and yet…
“I couldn’t neglect children.”
“Good.” He almost purred as he tilted her chin with his thumb and followed the cord from her neck down to her collarbone. “I knew you wouldn’t.”
Two dreams. One to create a masterpiece of humanity that would resonate with passion for all to see. The other…just to marry Blackburn, and be happy.
For so many years, she would have done anything to achieve those dreams. Now she had to sacrifice one to obtain the other.
Two dreams. Only one could triumph.
Turning to Blackburn, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed close to his chest. “When we get home, do you think we could work on those future generations?”
“You’ve lost him already.”
Jane jumped, but didn’t turn. She recognized the voice. Frederica, Countess of Athowe, had sought her out to say what everyone was thinking.
“He’s following your niece like a stallion scenting a mare.”
Clenching the balcony’s balustrade, Jane stared down at the crowd around Adorna. Blackburn’s head lingered close. He didn’t interfere with the other gentlemen; indeed, he seemed to encourage them. But these actions were not the behavior of an infatuated husband. They were the actions of a disgruntled lover.
And why? Jane didn’t know. Since their reconciliation in the carriage five nights ago, they had spent every moment together, either passionately entwined, resting after being passionately entwined, or preparing to be passionately entwined. Oh, they had slept occasionally. They even ate once in a while. But for the most they had been creating the kind of unbreakable bond one seldom saw but always dreamed about.
Or so Jane thought.
Until today, when his valet had brought a message to their bedchamber. Blackburn had risen, and read it, and in a voice absent of inflection, he’d said, “We’re going to attend the ball at the Manwins’.”
Now those who marveled at Blackburn’s dedication to his plain new wife were having a laugh, and at Jane’s expense.
“How humiliating for you.” Frederica’s tone grew in depth and viciousness. “But you must have known it could never have lasted.”
Turning, Jane stared down at Frederic
a. “I would like to paint you.”
Frederica lifted her brows and smirked.
“Not as a human, but as a badger, all teeth and bristling fur.” Indeed, Jane could almost see the sketch in her mind, and imagined adding it to her portrait portfolio.
Leaning forward, Frederica bristled and bared those teeth. “You are a bitch. You come to London and steal the man I’ve chosen—”
“You chose Blackburn?”
“No, Athowe. He was mine until you showed up.”
Jane’s head reeled. This business with Athowe was puzzling. She had been nothing but an interlude for him, and he had fled her willingly enough when scandal hit. “He was yours after I left, too. You mistake a brief infatuation on his part for something more.”
“Really?” Frederica put her hands on her hips. “When all I’ve heard for the past ten years is Jane. I’m sick of it.”
“I don’t want Athowe. I never wanted him.”
“That’s the worst of it, isn’t it? He wanted you. You wanted Blackburn. I wanted Athowe. And no one wanted me.” Frederica drew back, her cheeks a ghastly pink beneath her lead powder. “That’s why it’s such a delight to see Blackburn betray you so quickly.”
Jane stared over the rail again. Blackburn was still there at Adorna’s side, and Jane was faint with jealousy.
Jealous of her own niece, when she didn’t even really believe there was anything between them. Blackburn had never, ever indicated any interest in Adorna. Not even from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her.
Jane knew that, because she’d been so surprised. Most men were bug-eyed and slobbering at first sight of Adorna; Blackburn had been engrossed by Jane.
Although there was that one time in the carriage on the way to the reception, when Blackburn had taught Adorna a new French phrase. They’d seemed almost to communicate without words then, but Jane could have sworn the fascination had been purely academic.
“And now you don’t even have your art,” Frederica said with blatantly spurious sympathy.
Jane tore her gaze from the couple below. “What?”
“You’ve given up your art for your true love. Isn’t that right?”
That got Jane’s attention. Only yesterday she had sent a farewell message to Monsieur Bonvivant, trying with unsteady eloquence to explain that, out of practical considerations, she had given up her impossible dream. Bonvivant did not leave de Sainte-Amand’s; his impairment made him reluctant to display himself. He had come to the reception only to honor her, and his seclusion, even within de Sainte-Amand’s home, was complete. So how had word spread so quickly? “Why do you say that?”
“My French tutor told me today. What’s his name? That earnest young man—”
“Monsieur Chasseur?”
“Yes, that’s him.” Frederica smoothed her charcoaled brows with one finger, and Jane noted that the nail was chewed to the quick. “He’s such a bore, and so intense I can scarcely bear the lessons. So when he hands me a piece of interesting gossip, I would hardly forget it.”
“Monsieur Chasseur says I have given up art.” Jane leaned over the rail at the dance floor again. This time she looked carefully, searching for de Sainte-Amand. “How does he know that?”
“I don’t know. I suppose he heard you say so when he was teaching your niece.” Frederica leaned over the rail. “She’s so pretty. How do you stand it?”
“It’s not something we talk about.”
“Yes, I would hate to talk about her, especially if she’s already stolen your husband.”
“No, I mean my art. We don’t talk about it.”
Jane found de Sainte-Amand. He stood alone, his gaze darting from one person to another. He started to walk around the ballroom but stopped, and stared longingly at the clump of men around Adorna.
That day at the beach, de Sainte-Amand had indicated that he knew Monsieur Chasseur only vaguely. Yet Monsieur Chasseur must have seen Monsieur Bonvivant or spoken intimately with de Sainte-Amand; there was no other explanation.
Fitz came up to him and spoke, and de Sainte-Amand answered with palpable agitation.
“I wonder what this means,” Jane said absently. “De Sainte-Amand is acting oddly.” As oddly as Ransom.
“So’s Athowe,” Frederica muttered. “As soon as the news came today, he went mad with fury.”
“Athowe?” Jane said, surprised. “Fury?” Then, “News? What news?”
“Frederica,” Athowe spoke from behind them. “Stop tormenting Miss Higgenbothem.”
Jane twirled and saw Athowe standing a little too close for comfort.
Frederica jumped as guiltily as any woman caught gossiping about her husband.
“Go on, woman.” He was smiling at Jane affably, one hand thrust into his waistcoat, and all the while talking to Frederica in a tone that made Jane want to cringe. “Miss Higgenbothem doesn’t need to listen to your poison.”
Frederica recovered her composure almost at once, and smiled her puckered, taunting smile. “She’s Lady Blackburn. She married her true love, remember?”
Athowe turned his head. He looked at his wife.
Whatever Frederica saw in his face frightened her, for she backed away rapidly. “I’m leaving,” she said. “But remember, Athowe, what she said at the reception. There was never a chance that you two would marry.”
He took a step.
She ran.
Jane wished she could be anywhere else right now. Even facing Blackburn with his perfidy would be better than witnessing the ugly scene between husband and wife.
Yet Athowe spoke mildly as if the incident had never occurred. “You’ll have to excuse my wife.” He came to stand beside Jane. “She doesn’t know when to stop talking.”
Uneasy in his presence, and not comfortable with any discussion of spouses, Jane shrugged. “She doesn’t bother me.”
“How fortunate you are. I wish I could say the same.” Leaning his elbows against the balustrade, he watched the crowd below, taking special note of Blackburn and Adorna, Jane was sure. “You can almost smell the jubilation in the air tonight.”
“Jubilation?” Down on the floor, Blackburn never spoke to Adorna. He just watched and listened, and if anything, that made Jane more miserable. At least Adorna should have to coo at him to make him worship her. “About what?”
“My dear Miss—”
She shot him a glare.
Smoothly he changed. “Lady Blackburn, haven’t you heard the report?”
Of course she hadn’t heard any report. She’d been avoiding her friends all evening.
“A ship full of French soldiers came ashore at Breadloaf Rock near Dover.”
Athowe enunciated each word, and looked at her as if searching for something. Pleasure? Excitement?
Blackburn had abandoned her for Adorna. Did Athowe really think she cared about the French?
“They attacked the garrison there,” Athowe said, “and when they were captured, the commander confessed to receiving false information through the spy network. It seems they were told the garrison was poorly manned, and the idiot thought it would be a triumph to capture a few English soldiers right off English soil and carry them away to France.”
He recited without inflection, watching her all the while, and slowly the sense of what he said penetrated Jane’s desolation. “How curious. Does anyone know how this happened?”
“Apparently the French spy network has been infiltrated.” He didn’t sound as if he were repeating happy news.
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Inevitable, I would say.”
“Who infiltrated the network?”
“A very clever man.”
He spoke with such meaning, she jumped to conclusions. “You?”
“Me?” He laughed. “No, not me. I’m not nearly clever enough to catch traitors.” At the end of the gallery, something caught his eye, and he stared and muttered, “What is he doing here?”
Jane looked, too, and saw an elderly man, spry for his
age, walking toward them. He wore a black jacket of cheap wool and breeches of a style at least twenty years old, and his thin white hair couldn’t cover the variety of liver spots that shone off his scalp.
But he had an air of command about him, and Jane found her gaze caught by his.
“Lady Blackburn?” he said when he was in earshot.
“Yes,” she acknowledged.
“Good. I had wanted to meet you. I’m Mr. Smith.” He bowed, then looked beyond her. “Your companion couldn’t wait to leave.”
She glanced around. For the second time in her life, Athowe had disappeared, although she thought perhaps the circumstances were not quite as dire as the last time.
Mr. Smith’s next words proved her wrong.
“I’m a director in the Foreign Office,” he said. “Your husband reports to me, and he tells me he believes you’re a French spy.”
Chapter 28
A spy. Fitz couldn’t believe it. He was a spy—for France. At the Manwins’ ball, de Sainte-Amand had snatched on to him like a drowning man snatched on to a log. “Oui, oui! You will be our man. We will”—he glanced around at the press of nobles around them and lowered his voice—“we will have you go at once to the Foreign Office and offer your services. When you are established, you will be contacted by someone and told what to do.”
His agitation gave Fitz a sinking sensation—or perhaps it was his own guilt. “What about you?”
“The network cannot remain static.” De Sainte-Amand fidgeted with his snuffbox. “Others will come to take my place.”
“You’re leaving.”
“It is time.”
Fitz didn’t like this. He didn’t like it at all. The instincts he’d developed on the Peninsula stirred to life. Almost without thinking, he sought to draw out the Frenchman. “So it is true?”
Wiping a trickle of sweat off his brow, de Sainte-Amand asked absently, “What?”
“That the Foreign Office is preparing to arrest an English lord for traitorous activities.”
De Sainte-Amand pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed it across his face. “Yes, I fear it is so.”
That Scandalous Evening Page 23
