Читать книгу Surrender - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 11
ОглавлениеCHAPTER THREE
HE WASN’T SMILING as he spoke.
Evelyn seized the banister to remain upright. For an entire moment, one that felt like an eternity, she could not speak. She had found Jack Greystone—or, he had found her.
And he hadn’t changed. He remained so unbearably attractive. He was tall and powerfully built, clad now in a rather wet riding coat, fashionable lace cuffs spilling from the sleeves, a darker vest beneath. He also wore doeskin breeches and high black boots with spurs, now splattered with mud.
And his golden hair was pulled casually back, some of it escaping from its queue. But that only made his high cheekbones seem sharper, his jaw seem stronger. And his gray gaze was intent upon her.
Evelyn’s heart slammed another time—he was regarding her attire, rather thoroughly.
She knew she flushed. But she was dressed for bed, not for entertaining. “You have scared me witless, sir!”
“I apologize,” he said, and she could not decide if he meant it. “But I rarely go anywhere in broad daylight, and I never use the front door.”
Their gazes were now locked. She continued to reel, remaining stunned by his appearance in her home. He was referring now to the bounty on his head. “Of course not,” she managed.
He said wryly, as calm as she was not, “I have not misheard, have I? Half a dozen of my acquaintances have alerted me to the inquiries you have been, rather recklessly, making. You are looking for me, Lady D’Orsay?”
“Yes,” she said, suddenly very aware that he had just identified her as the Countess D’Orsay, not the Vicomtesse LeClerc. She had never corrected the misinformation she had deliberately given him—when they had parted company, four years ago, upon landing just south of London, he had still believed her to be Lady LaSalle, Vicomtesse LeClerc. “I am desperate to have a word with you, sir.” As she spoke, she recalled their first meeting, four years ago. She had been desperate then, and she had said so.
But his gaze never flickered; his expression did not change. It occurred to her that he did not recall that meeting—and that he did not recognize her.
But how could he fail to recognize her? Was it even possible?
His stare was prolonged. It was a moment before he said, “That is an attractive nightgown, Countess.”
He did not recognize her, she was now certain. It was shocking! She had remarkable features—everyone said so. She might be tired and pale, but she was still an attractive woman. Trevelyan had thought so.
She was flushing, uncertain of what he meant, and whether there had been mockery in his tone. She did not know how to respond to such a remark—or what to do about his failure to recognize her. “I was hardly expecting to find a visitor, within my home, at this hour.”
“Obviously.” He was wry. “If it eases you, I have two sisters, and I have seen a great many female garments.”
She felt certain he was laughing at her now. It crossed her mind that a great many of those female garments had not belonged to his sisters. “Yes, I had heard.”
“You have heard that I am accustomed to the sight of women in their nightclothes?”
“You know that is not what I meant.” But of course, it was probably very true! “I am going to get a robe—I will be right back!”
He seemed amused as he sipped his wine, looking up the stairs at her. Evelyn turned and fled, her disbelief growing. In her chamber, she threw on a cotton robe that matched her nightgown. Maybe he would recognize her once she stepped fully into the light. But just then, she was feeling oddly insulted.
Didn’t he think her attractive?
She forced herself to a calmer pace and returned downstairs. He was in the salon—he had lit several tapers, and he watched her as she entered. “How do you know about my sisters?” His tone remained bland. “Have you made inquiries about them, too?”
She was trembling, and her pulse was racing but she stiffened, instantly sensing that she was venturing into dangerous territory. He was, she thought, displeased. “No, of course not. But they were mentioned in the course of a conversation.”
“About me?” His stare was relentless.
She shivered. “About you, sir.”
“And with whom did you have this enlightening conversation?”
“John Trim.” Was he worried about betrayal? “He admires you greatly. We all do.”
His gray gaze flickered. “I suppose I should be flattered. Are you cold?”
Her pulse was rioting but she was hardly cold—she was unnerved, undone, at a loss! She had forgotten how manly he was, and how his presence teased the senses. “It is raining.”
There was a wool throw on the back of the sofa and, very casually, he retrieved it. She tensed as he approached. “If you are not cold,” he said softly, “then you are very nervous—but then, you are also very desperate.”
For an instant, she thought he had inflected upon the final word—and that he recalled their first meeting, when she had been so desperate, after all. But his expression never changed as he laid the wool about her shoulders and she realized that he did not remember her, not at all. “I am unused to entertaining at this hour,” she finally said. “We are strangers and we are alone.”
“It is half past nine, Countess, and you asked for this rendezvous.”
It felt like midnight, she thought. And clearly, he was not shaken by their encounter, not at all.
“Have I somehow distressed you?” he asked.
“No!” She quickly, falsely, smiled. “I am thrilled that you have called.”
He eyed her, askance. Thunder cracked overhead and the shutter slammed against the house. Evelyn jumped.
He had just raised his glass and now he set it down. “It is incredible, that you live in this house with but one manservant. I will close the shutter.” He left.
And when he was gone, she seized the back of the sofa, trembling wildly. How did he know that she lived alone with Laurent, her only manservant? Obviously he had made some inquiries about her.
But he did not recognize her. It was unbelievable, that she hadn’t made any impression on him.
He returned to the salon, smiling slightly, and shutting both doors behind them. Evelyn clutched the throw more tightly across her chest as their gazes met.
He walked past the sofa, which remained between them, and picked up his glass of wine. “I would prefer that no one here is aware of my presence tonight, other than yourself.”
“Everyone in this house is utterly trustworthy,” she managed, standing on the other side of the couch.
“I prefer to choose when to take risks—and which risks to take. And I rarely trust anyone—and never strangers.” His smile was cool. There was that odd, derisive, inflection again. “It shall be our little secret, Countess.”
“Of course I will do as you ask. And I am very sorry if my asking about you, so openly, has caused you any alarm.”
He took a sip of the red wine he was drinking. “I am accustomed to evading the authorities. You are not. What will you say to them when they come knocking at your door?”
She stared, dismayed, as she had not considered this possibility.
“You will tell them that you haven’t seen me, Lady D’Orsay,” he said softly.
“Should I expect a visit from the authorities?”
“I think so. They will advise you to contact them the moment you have seen me. And those are games best left to those who wish to play in very high stakes.” He paced past the sofa. “Do you want me to light a fire? You are shivering, still.”
She was trying to absorb what he had said, and she faced him, distracted. She wasn’t shivering, she thought, she was trembling. “You have obviously just come in out of the rain, so, yes, I imagine you would enjoy a fire. And I would, too.”
He shrugged off his damp wool coat. “I assume you do not mind? As the attire is so casual tonight?”
Was she blushing yet again? Was he mocking her again? Somehow she walked to him and took the jacket. The wool was very fine, and she suspected the coat had Italian origins. “Hopefully this will dry before you leave,” she said, although the rain was pounding the house again.
He eyed her, then removed a tinderbox from his waistcoat, knelt and started a fire. The kindling quickly took. He poked the logs with the iron poker until the wood was burning. Standing, he closed the grate.
Evelyn stepped beside him, holding his coat up in front of the warm fire. He glanced down at her. As they were standing so closely now, she saw a somewhat intent gleam in his eyes. It seemed suggestive and it felt seductive—like a raw male appraisal.
“Would you care for a glass of wine?” he asked, softly. “I so dislike drinking alone. That Bordeaux is excellent. And I hope you do not mind, I helped myself.”
His tone had become soft, raising goose bumps on her skin. “Of course I do not mind. It is the least I can offer you. But, no, thank you. I cannot imbibe on an empty stomach,” she said truthfully.
He turned and moved one of the salon’s two chairs to the front of the fire. Then he took the coat from her and hung it on the back of the chair. “I remain curious about your desire to speak with me. I have not been able to imagine what the Countess D’Orsay wishes of me.” His stride unhurried, he walked to the bar cart and retrieved his glass of wine.
She watched him, knowing she must not be distracted by his tone, his proximity, not when she had to make her case. “I have a proposition, Mr. Greystone.”
He stared over the rim of his glass. “A proposition… I am even more intrigued.”
Had he just looked through her robe and nightgown? Evelyn walked over to the sofa and sat down, still unnerved. She reminded herself that the cotton was far too tightly woven for him to be able to look through it, but she felt as if he had just taken a quick glance at her naked body.
“Countess?”
“It has come to my attention, Mr. Greystone, that you are probably the best free trader in Cornwall.”
His dark brows lifted. “Actually, I am the best smuggler in all of Great Britain—and I have the accounts to prove it.”
She smiled a little; she found his arrogance attractive, his confidence reassuring. “Some might be put off by your bravado, Mr. Greystone, but bravado is exactly what I require now.”
“I am now entirely intrigued,” he said.
She met his probing gray gaze and wondered if he was intrigued with her, as a woman. “I wish to hire a smuggler, and not just any smuggler, but someone who is skilled and courageous, to retrieve family heirlooms from my husband’s château in France.”
He set his glass down and said slowly, “Did I just hear you correctly?”
“My husband died recently, and those heirlooms are terribly important to me and my daughter.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” he said, without seeming to mean it. Then, he said, “That is quite the task.”
“Yes, I imagine it is, but that is why I have been seeking to locate you, Mr. Greystone, as surely you are the man capable of accomplishing such a mission.”
He stared for a long time, and she was becoming accustomed to being unable to discern even a hint of his thoughts or emotions. “Crossing the Channel is dangerous. Traveling within France now is madness, as it remains in the midst of a bloody revolution, Countess. You are asking me to risk my life for your family heirlooms.”
“Those heirlooms were left to me and my daughter by my recently deceased husband, and it was his greatest wish that I retrieve them,” she said firmly. When his expression did not change, she added, “I must recover them, and your reputation is outstanding!”
“I am certain they are important to you. I am certain your husband wished for you to have them. However, my services are quite expensive.”
She wasn’t sure what his stare meant—but he had said the exact same thing to her four years ago. Intending to offer him a share of the gold once it was in her possession, she said carefully, “The heirlooms are valuable, sir.” She did not think it wise to tell him that Henri had left her a chest of gold.
“Of course they are.... This isn’t about nostalgia, or sentiment, obviously.” He nodded at the barely furnished room.
“We have fallen into very strained circumstances, sir. I am desperate and I am determined.”
“And I am neither desperate nor determined. I prefer to preserve my life, and would only risk it for a great cause.” His gaze was piercing. “One with just compensation.”
“This is a great cause!” she gasped.
“That is a matter of opinion.” He was final.
He was going to refuse her? “I have hardly finished making my case,” she said swiftly.
“But haven’t you? My services are very costly. I do not mean to be rude, but it is obvious that you cannot afford them. I would need a great incentive to risk my life for you.” His stare locked with hers. “You are hardly the only impoverished widow in Cornwall. You will surely find a way into a better fortune.”
She wet her lips, shaken by the realization that their discussion would soon be over—and she would not have achieved his help. “But those heirlooms are very valuable, and I am prepared to offer you a very fair share,” she said quickly.
“A share?” He laughed. “I am always paid in advance, Countess. And how would you do that?” His smile vanished. His stare hardened. It slipped down her robe and nightgown. Then he turned away, his expression grim. His head down, he began to pace, wine in hand.
She trembled, watching him. She must focus now. When they had fled France, she had paid him with rubies—in advance. Now, she had very little jewelry left. She could not imagine using her last pieces now.
“Clearly, you are in some financial straits,” he said, finally looking at her. “Unfortunately, it is a common practice to take payment in advance—and it is good business. I am not interested in ‘fair shares,’ after the fact.”
She stared, dismayed. Of course he wanted an advance payment—what if he went to France and failed to retrieve the gold? Or was hurt during the voyage? So much could go wrong, preventing him from attaining a successful conclusion.
But she could not pay him in advance. So now what was she to do? The only thing that Evelyn was certain of was that she could not give up.
“Can you not make an exception?” Evelyn finally asked slowly. “For me and my daughter? We have fallen on terrible times, which you can see. I am desperate—because I am a mother! If all went well, you would be handsomely rewarded, just not in advance, and I am vowing it!”
He slowly turned and looked at her, his gray eyes dark. “I am not prepared to risk my life for you, Countess.”
Her mind raced frantically, as he was denying her—denying Aimee. “But I can promise you that there will be just compensation—I give you my word! Surely you have the heart to make an exception now, not for me, but for my daughter!”
He lifted his wine and finished it. “Do not try to use your daughter to play me,” he warned.
She didn’t mean to do any such thing—but he was about to walk out her door—she simply knew it! She was desperate, and impulsively, she moved to stand in front of him—to bar his way. “Please, do not dismiss my proposal. How can I convince you to at least consider it?”
He looked very directly at her now. “I have considered it.”
She trembled, taken aback as never before. A terrible silence fell. It was thick with tension—and his relentless stare never wavered.
Couldn’t she convince him to help her? Men were always rushing to her side, to help her across the street, to open doors for her, to see her into her carriage. She had never paid much attention to her power as a beautiful woman before, but she was not a fool—Henri had fallen in love with her because of her beauty. It was only after he had become further acquainted with her that he had loved her for her character and temperament.
Greystone hadn’t recognized her, but she was certain of his interest. When he looked at her directly, it was a glance any woman would recognize.
Her heart lurched. Henri was surely turning over in his grave now! Going into this man’s arms would be the last recourse! “Mr. Greystone, I am desperate,” she said softly. “I am begging you to reconsider. My daughter’s future is at stake.”
“When I set sail, I not only risk my own life, I risk those of my men,” he spoke, now seeming impatient.
She could barely breathe. “I am a widow in great need, without protection, or means. You are a gentleman. Surely—”
“No, I am not.” He was abrupt and final. “And I am not in the habit of generously rescuing damsels in distress.”
Did she have any other choices? Aimee’s future was at stake, and he did not seem about to bend. She had to get that gold; she had to secure a bright future for her daughter! Evelyn lifted her hand; somehow, she touched his jaw.
His eyes widened.
“I am in mourning,” she whispered, “and if France is as dangerous as you claim, then I am asking you to risk your life for me.”
His thick, dark lashes lowered. She could not see his eyes, and another silence fell. Evelyn dropped her hand; it was trembling. He slowly lifted his lashes and looked at her.
“Aren’t you curious, Countess? Don’t you want to know why I came here?” he asked very softly.
She felt her heart slam. “Why?”
“You have a reputation, too.”
“What does that mean? What reputation could I possibly have?”
“I have heard it said, often enough, that the Countess D’Orsay is the most beautiful woman in all of England.”
It was suddenly so silent, that she could hear the rain, not just pounding over their heads, but running from the gutters on the roof. She could hear the logs and kindling, crackling in the hearth. And she could hear her own deafening heartbeat.
“And we both know that is absurdly false,” she said thickly.
“Is it?”
Evelyn wet her lips, oddly dazed. “Surely you agree… Such a claim is absurd.”
He slowly smiled. “No, I do not agree. How modest you are.”
Evelyn did not know what to do, and she couldn’t think clearly now. She had never been in any man’s arms except for Henri’s—and he hadn’t been young or good-looking or sensual. Her heart raced more wildly. There was alarm and confusion, there was even some dismay, but mostly, there was excitement.
She hesitated. “I was sixteen when I married my husband.”
He started. “What does that have to do with anything?”
She had been trying to tell him that she wasn’t really experienced, but now, it didn’t seem to matter. Jack Greystone was the most attractive man she had ever come across, and not just because he was so handsome. He was so utterly masculine, so brazen and confident, and so powerful. Her knees were buckling. Her heart was thundering. Her skin prickled.
She had never felt this way before.
Evelyn stood up on her tiptoes and as she prepared to kiss him, their gazes locked. His was wide, incredulous. But then it blazed.
Her insides hollowed in response and she brushed her mouth once upon his. And the moment their lips met, a shocking sensation of pleasure went through her.
Standing there with her mouth open was like being on fire!
He gripped her shoulders and kissed her. Evelyn gasped, because his mouth was very firm and even more demanding; he began kissing her with a stunning ferocity.
And Evelyn kissed him back.
Somehow, she was in his arms. Her entire body was pressed against his, enveloped by his, her breasts crushed by his chest. For the first time in her life, she realized she was in the throes of desire. It was maddening—senseless.
And then he stepped back and pushed her away from him.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
He looked at her, breathing hard—his gray gaze on fire.
Evelyn clutched her robe to her body. She reached for the sofa so she could continue to stand upright. Had she just been in his arms? The arms of a veritable stranger? And since when did anyone kiss that way—with such hunger, such intensity?
“You are trouble, Countess,” he said harshly.
“What?” Evelyn cried. Some sensibility was returning, and she could not believe what she had just done!
“I am sorry you are desperate, Countess. I am sorry you are destitute. But one night in your bed isn’t enough to entice me to France on your behalf.” His eyes blazed with desire, but she saw anger, too.
Evelyn started. She had kissed him—she hadn’t suggested an affair. “I do need your help,” she heard herself cry.
“You are a dangerous woman. Most men are fools. I am not.” Giving her a grim look, he strode past her. At the door he paused. “I am certain you will find someone else to do your bidding. Good night.”
Evelyn was so bewildered that she could not move, not until she heard the front door slam. She collapsed upon the sofa. She had found Jack Greystone. She had dared to kiss him, and he had kissed her back, with fervor. And then he had refused her pleas and walked out on her!
She told herself that she was crying for Aimee—and not because Jack Greystone had had her in his arms only to reject her.
* * *
JACK WAS STILL IN A VERY foul mood. The sun now high, he slid from his mount, tied it to the rail in front of the inn and patted its rump. He had just dropped anchor on one of the beaches below the village of Bexhill, and as it was half past noon, he was late.
The Gray Goose Inn was a dilapidated white stucco building with a shingled roof, a dusty courtyard, and a great many suspicious patrons. Just north of Hastings, set in rolling green meadows, it was his preferred meeting place because he did not wish to pass through the Strait of Dover, just in case he was boxed in there by his enemies. He could outrun a naval destroyer and a revenue cutter, and he had, but there was not a great deal of room to maneuver in the Straits.
He sighed as he entered the dark, somewhat malodorous and smoky public room. It had stopped raining well before dawn, when he had been hoisting sail and leaving the cove near Fowey, but he was somewhat chilled from the entire damp, cold night. At least it was warm inside the inn, but it was a far cry from his uncle’s home on Cavendish Square in London, where he would greatly prefer to be now.
The bounty on his head had begun to truly restrict his movements. He had been amused when he had first learned of its existence a year and a half ago. But instead of meeting his brother and uncle in the comfort of the Cavendish Square townhome, he was confined to a clandestine meeting in the cramped back room of a foul, roadside inn. It wasn’t as amusing now.
Jack had been engaged with smugglers since he was a boy of five years old, when he had insisted on standing watch with the village elders, on the lookout for the preventive men. Nothing had pleased him more than to watch the smugglers drop anchor in Sennen Cove and begin to unload their wares, except when the night was lit up with the torches carried by the revenue men as they rushed down the cliffs and invaded the beach, guns blazing. Casks would be dragged into secret caves, while others were left behind for the authorities. Some smugglers would turn tail and flee, others would fire back at the customs agents. He would join in the fighting—until an adult would espy him and drag him, protesting, away.
At seven, he had been dragging ankers filled with brandy across the beaches at Sennen Cove, as he was too small to carry them upon his shoulders. At ten, he had put out to sea with Ed Lewes as a cabin boy, at the time one of the most notorious and successful Cornish free traders. At twelve he had been a rigger, at fourteen, first mate. At seventeen he had become captain of his own ship, a fore and aft rigged sloop. Now, he captained the Sea Wolf II, an eighty-gallon frigate built just for the trade, her hull so skillfully carved that she cut the water like a dolphin. He’d yet to be caught when challenged.
He had spent most of his life outwitting and outrunning the revenue men, the customs agents and now, the British navy. He was accustomed to the danger and pursuit, and he was thrilled by both. He especially loved being hunted, and then tacking across the wind and becoming the hunter. How he loved chasing his enemies and driving them aground—he enjoyed nothing more.
He was also used to lying low, or going into hiding. He had no intention of going to prison, being transported, or now hanging for the acts of treason he was charged with committing.
He did not think his life would have changed as much, if it were only for the bounty. But both of his sisters had married into the highest echelon of British society, marrying the earls of Bedford and St Just, respectively. And he had become a subject of fascination for the ton.
Gentlemen admired him at their dinner tables, while ladies swooned over tales of his exploits on their shopping expeditions. There was gossip, rampant speculation and even some idolatry. There were a dozen debutantes calling upon his sisters, in the hopes of soliciting his attentions!
As such, the authorities had placed him squarely in their targets. He was, without a doubt, the one smuggler the Admiralty most wished to catch and hang.
He hadn’t been to London in at least six months. His brother, Lucas, was staying at the Cavendish Square flat, and the house was frequently watched. Apparently lookouts were occasionally stationed at Bedford House and Lambert Hall. A few years ago, he could come and go in broad daylight, he could shop on Pall Mall, he could attend supper parties and balls. Even a year ago, he could enter London to visit his sisters, as long as there was no fanfare. Not anymore.
He had a niece and nephew he never saw. But he was hardly a family man.
He had to exercise the utmost caution wherever he went. In fact, he had been as careful when he had ventured to Roselynd last night. He had considered the countess’s inquiries a possible trap. But he had not been followed, and no one had shown up at her door to arrest him while they spoke.
He paused on the threshold of the public room, trying to peer through the smoke, a very dark, partly sexual, tension within him. The Countess D’Orsay was as beautiful as claimed. Curiosity had compelled him to meet her. He had wanted to see if she was such a great beauty—which she was—and he had also wanted to see if she was setting a trap for him—which she was not. But he hadn’t expected her to be the woman he had rescued in France, four years earlier.
And the moment he had recognized her, it had been like receiving a stunning blow to the chest.
He had realized, instantly, that she was the woman who had claimed to be the Vicomtesse LeClerc. He had been stunned, but he had hidden it.
He could easily forgive her that deceit. He did not blame her for hiding her identity from him, although he would have never revealed it had he known.
But he hadn’t ever really forgotten her. She had haunted him day and night for days and even weeks after that Channel crossing.
And now, that old man she had married was dead.
And for one moment, he did not see the dozen men within the tavern he’d stepped into. He could only see Evelyn D’Orsay, with her dark hair and vivid blue eyes, so tiny and petite.
He lived a dangerous life, and his survival depended upon his instincts. They were finely honed from years of outrunning the revenue men, and now, two navies. Every instinct he currently had warned him to stay far from Evelyn D’Orsay.
It wasn’t just that he had found her terribly beautiful four years ago, so beautiful he almost felt smitten at first sight. But when she’d looked at him with her big blue eyes, imploring him to rescue her, she awoke the strongest, most unfamiliar urges in him—urges to defend and protect. It was as if she had endured a lifetime of suffering and hurt, which he must somehow ease. He had been highly affected by her desperation back then. But he had hidden it, taking her rubies as payment for his services. He had remained as indifferent and aloof as possible.
Last night, he had steeled himself against her again.
It hadn’t been easy. He had forgotten how striking she was—how tiny. And the shadows in her eyes remained. When she looked at him, her eyes filled with desperation, he had those same consuming urges as before—urges to protect her from life’s ills. Urges to rescue her. Urges even to hold her tight.
It was absurd.
So while she might be destitute now, he reminded himself that she had hardly had a life of misery—she had married one of France’s premier titles. She had been wealthy for many years. The odd urges he had when she looked at him were senseless. The raging attraction, well, that he could certainly justify—and dismiss.
But the truth was that he had helped several families flee France without receiving any kind of compensation from them at all. These Frenchmen and women had left everything they had behind; he hadn’t considered turning them away. But with the Countess D’Orsay, it was different. He knew he must never come to her rescue in a personal way. Their relationship must remain a strictly impersonal one—he was sure of it.
She was simply too enticing and too intriguing. She stirred up too many feelings, and he could very easily become attached. And he had no use for attachments outside of those to his family. He was a rogue, a smuggler and a spy—and he liked his life exactly as it was—he liked living outside society, he liked being on the run.
As for the kiss they had shared, he had to stop thinking about it. Thus far, that had proven impossible. He could not recall ever being so aroused, but when he had kissed her, it had also felt as if he were holding an innocent debutante in his arms.
Yet he knew better—she was a countess, a grown woman, a widow and a mother. She was not innocent and inexperienced. And if he believed, even for a moment, that he could enjoy her bed without becoming entangled with her, he would do so immediately. But he did not think it would be easy to leave her after a single night, so he would stay away—far away.
Therefore, no matter what she offered, no matter how she offered it, he was not going to France for her. He had never been more resolved.
“You have made it—and you are in one piece,” his brother said, cutting into his dark thoughts. He was embraced, hard, by a tall golden-haired man, more politely dressed than Jack was. No one could mistake them for anything other than what they were—brothers. “We are in the back,” Lucas added unnecessarily.
Jack was thrilled to see his older brother. Their father had been an irresponsible rogue, and he had abandoned their mother when Jack was six years old. Lucas had been almost ten at the time. Their uncle, Sebastian Warlock, had managed the estate for them for several years, mostly from afar, as an absentee landlord. Lucas had stepped into the breach by the age of twelve or so, taking over the reins at an early age. Now the brothers were as close as brothers could be, although as different in nature as night and day.
For Lucas managed not just the estate, but the family. Jack knew that a great burden had been lifted from his brother’s shoulders when their sisters had fallen in love and married. Now Lucas spent most of his time in London—or on the continent.
“How are you?” Lucas asked.
Jack smiled. “Do you need to even ask?”
“Now that is the brother I know so well. Why were you glowering at the crowd?” Lucas led him across the room and into a private back room.
Jack debated telling him a bit about the Countess D’Orsay, but then he saw Sebastian Warlock standing facing the fireplace, his back to them. As usual, their uncle wore a black velvet coat and dark brown breeches. As Lucas closed the door, the prime minister’s spymaster turned. “You are rarely late.” His glance was skewering.
“Yes, I am fine, thank you for asking,” Jack returned.
“I imagine that he is late because it is difficult traveling about the country with a bounty on one’s head,” Lucas said, pulling out a chair from the table, which seated four. A fire blazed in the hearth. Bread, cheese, ale and whiskey were on the table.
“Your brother harps like a woman when he is concerned,” Warlock said. “And he is always concerned about you. However, that bounty is the perfect cover.”
“It is the perfect cover,” Jack agreed. Lucas specialized in extracting émigrés and agents from the enemy’s hands and lands. He was a patriot and a Tory, so his having become involved in the war was perfectly natural and Warlock had known it when he recruited him.
Jack had been a different story. For while Jack occasionally moved such human cargo for his brother or another one of Warlock’s agents, Warlock was more interested in receiving the information Jack ferried across the Channel. A great many smugglers moved information along with their cargo across the Channel. Most Cornish smugglers were French spies, however. Jack found it amusing to play such games, and he knew Warlock had known he would think so when he had first approached him some years ago.
“I may have been briefly deluded by such an argument nine or ten months ago,” Lucas said, “but I am not deluded now. It is a very dangerous game. I do not like it. Sebastian, you are going to get my brother killed.”
“You know I did not place that bounty on his head. However, my first rule is to exploit opportunity, and that bounty has provided us with vast opportunity. Were you delayed?” Warlock asked Jack.
Jack took the proffered seat. “I was delayed—but not by the bounty.” He decided to smirk, as if he had spent the night in Evelyn’s arms. And he sobered. He could have seduced her, and maybe, he should have done so. But then he would probably be halfway to France as her errand boy.
Lucas rolled his eyes and poured Jack a scotch before sitting down with him. Warlock smiled and took a seat. He was an attractive man, but unlike his nephews, he was dark, with a somewhat brooding air. In his late thirties or early forties, he had the reputation of being a recluse. The world thought him a rather impoverished and boorish nobleman. It was wrong. In spite of his reputation, he did not lack for the ladies’ attentions.
“What do you have for me?” Warlock asked bluntly.
“I have it on very good authority that Spain intends to leave the Coalition,” Jack said.
A shocked silence greeted his words. But the war had not been going well for Britain and her Allies; France had recently conquered Amsterdam and annexed the Netherlands. Holland was now the Batavian Republic. There had been a number of French victories since the Allies’ terrible defeat at Fleurus, last June.
“You are confirming a rumor that I have already heard,” Warlock said grimly. “Now Pitt will have to seriously press Spain, before we lose her.”
Jack shrugged. He was not interested in the politics of war.
“What of La Vendée?” Lucas asked.
Jack looked at Lucas, meeting his glance. Their sister Julianne had married the Earl of Bedford in 1793. He had been a royalist supporter, and actively involved in the La Vendée uprising against the revolution. Unfortunately, the rebels had been crushed that summer, but fortunately, Dominic Paget had made his way home to Julianne, surviving a great massacre. But La Vendée had been rising again. The Loire countryside was filled with peasants, clergy and noblemen who remained furious over the execution of the king, and the forced secularization of the church.
In the Loire, the rebels were led by a young aristocrat, Georges Cadoudal. “He claims he now has twelve thousand troops, and that there will be more by summer. And once again, his question is, when? When will Britain invade Brittanny?” Jack said calmly. But as he spoke, he recalled Cadoudal’s desperation and fury.
“Windham has yet to finalize the plans,” Warlock said. “We only have a thousand émigré troops amassed for an invasion of Brittany, but someone has suggested we use our French prisoners of war, and if we do, we will have about four thousand troops in sum.”
“At least we know they can fight,” Jack joked.
Lucas smiled a little, the tension inherent in such a discussion relieved.
“There must be a timeline, Sebastian,” Lucas said. “We all know that General Hoche has already sent a great number of rebels into hiding. We lost La Vendée once. Surely we will not fail the rebels there again.” Lucas was grim.
Jack knew he was thinking of their sister Julianne. When La Vendée had gone down in flames, her husband had lost his mother’s family estates. His heart had been broken—and so had hers.
“There are many issues, but I am trying to convince Windham and Pitt to invade Quiberon Bay in June,” Warlock said. “And you may relay that to Cadoudal.”
Jack was glad he had some news to convey, and news that might reassure the rebel. Warlock stood and looked at Lucas. “I assume you wish to spend a few more moments with your brother. I must get back to London.”
“I do not mind riding back the way I came,” Lucas said.
“Keep me apprised,” Warlock said to Jack before leaving.
Lucas leaned forward. “How difficult was it for you to contact Cadoudal?”
“Hoche’s interest in La Vendée has made it more difficult than it was,” Jack said. “But we have a prearranged means of communication—and it is in code. You worry like a mother hen.”
“If I don’t worry about you, who will?” Lucas said darkly. “And I wasn’t jesting—I am damned tired of that bounty. Every day, your life is at risk. And the risk is even greater when you are at sea.” He leaned forward. “Captain Barrow is gunning for you. He was bragging the other night at an affair at Penrose’s home.”
Barrow had quite the reputation, but Jack was amused, and he shrugged. “I welcome the gauntlet.”
“Will you ever take life seriously?” Lucas demanded. “Everyone misses you—everyone is worried about you—it isn’t just I.”
Jack felt himself soften. The truth was, he missed his sisters, very much.
“Amelia is about to have her first child.”
“The babe is due in May.”
“That’s right,” Lucas said. “But she looks like she is about to have the child at any time. You have to see her, Jack.” Then he smiled. “She is so happy. She is a wonderful mother and she is so in love with Grenville.”
Jack laughed, but he was thrilled for his sister, whom he had assumed would remain a spinster, but who was not just married, but a stepmother to three children, with her own on the way. “As long as he is loyal and true.”
“He remains besotted,” Lucas said, and both brothers finally laughed. Their sister was such a serious woman, and Grenville had been a catch. It was inexplicable, really.
Jack realized he looked forward to a long-overdue family reunion. “Tell Amelia I will come to see her as soon as I can.” He almost wished that he could simply ride back to London with his brother, and call on Amelia now. But the war had changed everyone’s life, including his. These were dark, dangerous times.
Evelyn D’Orsay’s pale, beautiful image came to mind. He tensed. Damn it, why couldn’t he dismiss her from his thoughts?
“What’s wrong?” Lucas asked.
“You will be pleased to know that I have turned down a beautiful damsel in distress—that I have decided not to risk my life for a woman seeking to reclaim her family’s fortune.” And he was careful to sound mocking, when he did not quite feel that way.
“Oh, ho. Have you been rejected?” Lucas was incredulous. “You sound very put out.”
“I have never been rejected!” he exclaimed. “It is incredible that her wealthy husband left her so destitute, but I have no time now to play the knight in shining armor to save her.”
Lucas laughed, standing. “You are in a twist because of a woman! This is rich! Are you certain she did not reject you? And whom, pray tell, are we discussing?”
“I rejected her,” Jack said firmly. But suddenly he recalled the way he had left Roselynd—and how shocked and hurt she had been. “We are discussing the Countess D’Orsay. And Lucas? I am not interested in becoming ensnared.” He added, “No matter how beautiful and desperate she is.”
“Since when have you ever been ensnared by a woman?” Lucas asked, surprised.
Jack looked grimly at him. Maybe it was time to be honest, not with his brother, but with himself. “I got her out of France four years ago, with her husband and her daughter. And the problem is that I could not forget her then, and I am afraid I cannot forget her now.”
