5

Christien’s lips stiffened the instant he saw the horror on Lydia Gale’s face. His morning bread and chocolate, which had been all the nourishment he’d consumed that day, roiled in his gut, and each breath made his chest feel as though he’d broken a rib or two on the way from Upper Brook Street to Cavendish Square.

This wasn’t his first covert operation, but it surely had to be his worst. Face-to-face with the lady he had every reason to believe had given him her last valuable possession to provide him with food and shelter, he preferred betraying all those who trusted him to carry out his mission to betraying the lovely widow.

But he had a family too. His sisters needed marriage portions in the upcoming years. His mother deserved security, and his brother wanted an education so he could go into the church.

He fixed the faces of his loved ones in the back of his mind and made an elegant leg to Lady Lydia Gale. “Good afternoon, madame. I trust I do not intrude overmuch on your guests?”

Those guests continued their conversations while peering at him from around fans and teacups.

“You.” Her straight, white teeth snapped together behind a smile that was more of a grimace. She dropped a slight curtsy. When she rose, she met his gaze, and her dark eyes glowed with an inner fire that sent a radiance of heat swirling through him. “This is our afternoon for receiving callers, so you are not intruding, monsieur. But pray tell, what brings a Frenchman into our English midst?” Under her breath she added, “And one who has lost much of his accent in a matter of weeks.”

“I have lived in England since I was ten years in 1792.”

Except for the ten years he’d spent on the continent with Napoleon.

Ah, the lies, the games, the need for nightly repentance that never assuaged his burden of guilt.

“How fortunate you were to keep your head attached to your neck and away from the guillotine.” Lady Gale tilted her head. As though a curl, like many of the guests smiling around them, believed her words flirtatious, it slipped from its moorings and brushed her cheek.

Christien wondered if he could keep his head around her. He raised his hand, nearly brushing that curl aside. He pictured himself lifting it to his lips, inhaling its honey-citrus fragrance, testing its silkiness against his cheek.

He shoved his hand into his coat pocket. “My family was most fortunate to keep our heads. And now I am even more fortunate that we have a mutual friend who has so graciously allowed me to make your acquaintance.”

“Indeed.” Lang’s letter crunched in her hand, mangled beyond recognition. “A friend of my husband’s, I presume?”

“Biensur.” At the sibilant French word, a few ladies waved their fans more vigorously.

Madame Gale gripped hers as though she would smack him with it or she wished it were a truncheon instead. “I suppose I need to introduce you to my guests.”

“I would be most grateful. London is a lonely place without friends.” He offered what he hoped was a charming smile.

She blinked, and a hint of pink rose in her cheeks, testimony to the fact that she was not as indifferent to him as she pretended.

His smile broadened. “And perhaps a drive in the park afterward? It is a fine day for the end of March in this cold country.”

“Yes, it’s likely raining in Tavistock, don’t you think? Or have you never been to Tavistock?” As though discussing the weather under normal social conditions, she took his arm and nudged him forward.

He resisted the urge to cover her fingers with his and press them against his forearm, reassure her that her family would come to no harm through her actions or his. At least he would do his best to keep them all safe—by beginning with pretending that her comment about rain in Tavistock hadn’t been uttered.

“Monsieur Lang has told me of the beauty of the Bainbridge ladies,” he said. “Having met you, I believed him.”

“Flattery will serve you nothing here, monsieur. Though my youngest sister is quite a beauty, she is barely out of the schoolroom. She isn’t here. Cassandra is on the settee at the far end of the room, speaking with her fiancé and a friend. Mama is here.” She made these announcements in a breathless rush and stopped a yard from a lovely middle-aged lady with silver-gilt curls and a gentle smile. “Lady Jersey, Mama, this is Monsieur le comte de Meuse.”

Lady Jersey, one of the scions of Society. Tres bien. A step in the right direction. She was famous for her flirtatious ways. Even as he bowed over her extended hand, he caught the flutter of her lashes and felt the pressure of her fingers.

“An émigré?” she asked, holding his gaze too long.

“Oui, madame. My family lives in Shropshire.” Conveniently far from London.

“What has kept you from us for so long?” Lady Bainbridge inquired. “And how do you know him, my dear?” she asked her eldest daughter.

“I have been serving my country,” Christien responded automatically. At a start of movement beside him, he added, “My adopted country, n’est-ce pas?”

“His service is how I met him.” Lady Gale took half a step away from him. “I see that Lady Melby is leaving. I should say goodbye.”

Before Christien thought of a way to hold her beside him, she slipped away to a wispy lady old enough to be his great-grandmother.

“Are you a military man, monsieur?” Lady Jersey asked.

“An attaché to the foreign office only. But my uncle died last year, so I was graciously allowed to come home and have decided to spend this Season in London.” He reminded himself to make himself sound as much like an English family patriarch as possible. “I have two younger sisters who will reach the age for their come-out next spring, and another sister who has resisted a Season thus far, but should no longer.”

“Laying the groundwork for their success.” Lady Bainbridge’s smile was approving. “What a good brother.”

“And thinking of setting up your nursery?” Lady Jersey gave him a slanted smile.

“With the will of le bon dieu.”

If God honored men who had made a career of lies enough to provide a wife.

His gaze strayed across the drawing room to Lady Gale. She stood by the door, talking with a lovely young woman with the same dark hair and eyes, and a young man who gazed at the second lady as though she were a treasure for which he’d sought all his life. Christien flicked his gaze back to Lady Gale and wondered if his expression resembled that of the younger man.

“From all I hear,” Lady Jersey said in an undertone that would reach no ears but his, “you’ll catch cold in that direction. Lydia Bainbridge Gale is little more than a recluse with no interest in a second husband.”

“A pity. She’s beautiful.” Christien glanced at the mother. She too watched her eldest daughter. Her face reflected sorrow.

“How did you meet Lydia?”

“I was able to perform some service for her husband many years ago.” Christien’s fingers curled into a fist before he could stop them. “Monsieur Lang and I, that is. I did not know his wife was such a beauty.”

“I have been blessed with exceptional daughters.” Lady Bainbridge began to rise.

Christien offered her his hand. She leaned on him for support, and he realized how frail she appeared, her skin translucent, her hand thin enough to show all the veins, her bones as fragile as a bird’s wing. Quite a contrast to her robust eldest daughter.

“You do not object if I take your daughter for a drive in the park?” he asked.

“I’ll wager she doesn’t go.” Lady Jersey trilled a laugh.

Lady Bainbridge clucked in disapproval. “No wagering in my household, Sally. And no, of course I don’t object. But it’s Lydia whom you will have to convince. She isn’t inclined to allow herself to be courted in any way.”

“I’ll convince her.” Christien smiled, bowed to the ladies, and wended his way through tables, sofas, and chairs to the door and Lydia.

Yes, she was Lydia. He’d thought of her as Lydia since reading her letters. He had to force himself to call her Lady Gale. Calling her Lydia would insult her. She was a lady, poised and elegant in her city finery. Poised and elegant in the shabby gown she’d worn to the prison. Both attested to breeding and manners.

He counted on those to get an opportunity to be alone with her.

“Are you departing so soon, monsieur?” she asked him at the door.

“Not unless you agree to join me.” He smiled at her.

Her sister giggled. “Lydia, you didn’t tell us you have a suitor.”

“I don’t.” Lydia’s knuckles whitened around her fan. “Monsieur le comte de Meuse, Cassandra, Whittaker.”

A curtsy and bows were exchanged.

“Are you truly French?” Miss Bainbridge asked. “I would love to talk to you about life during the Terror. One day I want to write a history of the French Revolution and . . .” She trailed off, her face reddening. “I beg your pardon. Perhaps you do not wish to speak of it.”

“I would not mind, but I was but a child at the time and my recollections may be corrupt. Perhaps one day you can meet my maman and get a better perspective. She is une Americaine and had revolutionary ideas, though married to my papa. I expect her to come to London next year.”

“And we’ll be in Lancashire.” She gazed up at the young man beside her. “We’re getting married in June.”

“An excellent month is June.” Christien turned to Lydia. “Can you leave now for our drive?”

“Our—” She compressed her lips. “I’ll fetch my pelisse and hat.”

“We’re off for a drive too.” Miss Bainbridge tucked her hand into the crook of Whittaker’s arm. “One never knows when we will have sunshine again.”

They exchanged polite farewells, and Christien slipped into the entryway behind the couple to wait for Lydia. And wait for Lydia. If she didn’t hurry, the footman stationed beside the door would toss Christien into the street for loitering. Several guests gave him odd glances as they departed. The sun began to slant too far to the west.

Just when he wondered if she intended to remain above stairs and leave him to cool his heels until dark, footfalls sounded on the upper floor, died on the runner down the steps, and Lady Lydia Gale rounded the curve of the stairway.

A hat of white leghorn straw with a nosegay of pink roses on one side perched atop a cluster of curls that appeared a bit disheveled, with two curls dangling against her cheek instead of the one from earlier. Several long white hairs adorned her pink pelisse, and a scratch reddened an inch of fine skin beside her left ear.

“Is all well, madame?” Christien touched the scratch before he could stop himself.

She flinched and looked away. “My cat doesn’t like being shut up in my bedchamber and finds ways to get revenge.” She plucked several hairs from her pelisse. “What should I expect but trouble from a French cat?”

Christien laughed and offered his arm. “Come. We shall discuss the French felines along the way to Rotten Row. I have a fondness for cats.”

“Right now I’d happily give you mine.” She took his arm, and the footman sprang to open the front door. “My husband gave him to me for a betrothal gift. I think he knew—” She caught her breath.

“Oui, madame?” Christien welcomed the coolness of the outside air despite the odor of coal smoke strong enough to taste. “What did your husband know?”

“It’s unimportant.” She released his arm the instant they reached the bottom step and stood beside his curricle. “Your horses are lovely. The foreign service must be good to you.”

“My family has prospered here, not the foreign service.” Christien leaped aboard the open vehicle and leaned down to offer the lady his hand.

She grasped his fingers like a drowning woman, stepped onto the spoke, and swung aboard with the fluidity of a sunrise banishing darkness. Even if clouds had filled the sky, he would have rejoiced to be beside her, inhaling her perfume, hearing her voice, feeling the occasional touch of her arm against his.

A man could not fall in love at first sight. Not outside the pages of a romantic novel like those his sisters read, but a man could fall in love with an action that shouted of a lady’s character. Christien had done so the instant she pressed her bracelet into his palm and promised him freedom.

If he didn’t win her to his side, she would rob him of freedom just as quickly.

He unwound the reins from the whip box, called to the lad holding the horses to release their heads, and set the curricle surging forward to bounce over the cobbles of the square before glancing at his companion and launching into his prepared speech. “Thank you for not giving me away. I know you could have easily done so, and I would have found myself right back in Dartmoor Prison. Probably in the black hole there.”

“I didn’t do it to spare you the deprivations of prison. Right now I’d like to see you back there.” She sighed. “No, that isn’t true. I wouldn’t wish any enemies to live like that, not even you.”

“I am not your enemy, my lady.”

“You are French, are you not? We are at war.”

“You are at war with Napoleon’s France, not Bourbon France. I am of Bourbon France.”

“And a month ago, you were an officer in Napoleon’s Army. Do please tell me which person is the true man—Christophe Arnaud or Christien de Meuse.”

“Both.”

She gave an unladylike snort.

“Mais vraiment. I am Christien Christophe Arnaud de Meuse.”

“Please forgive me if I do not believe you.” Her voice held no true request for grace.

He granted her forgiveness anyway. “I understand your doubts, your distrust, your skepticism, your—”

“Outrage? Why don’t we begin with my outrage, monsieur.” She glared up at him with such ferocity he feared passersby would think he had said something improper to her.

He sought for words to calm her. “Oui, you have reason for outrage. I took advantage of your kindness—”

“And now are taking advantage of my love for my family and my fear that something terrible will happen to them if I don’t cooperate with whatever all of you want.”

Christien started. The reins jerked. The team of bays reared and halted. “What all of us?”

“Mr. Lang and his other friends. Not that he seemed much of a friend of yours when he confronted me.”

“What all of us?” Christien repeated. “Lang is my friend of many years and working with me alone.”

“Don’t ye be stoppin’ in the middle of the road, you blithering idgit,” a hackney driver shouted from behind them.

A few other drivers and small boys along the pavement began to pick up the chorus. They added some less savory comments to their catcalls.

Grinding his teeth, Christien snapped the reins to get the bays moving again and turned to Lydia. “Your statement implies that you have had other callers sent by Monsieur Lang.”

“As if you don’t know.” She curled her upper lip.

Kissing it would be a fine way to wipe the sneer away from her lovely mouth. One day. Not yet. Not while she thought of him what she should.

Thought of him what she should . . .

He concentrated on navigating the curricle between pedestrians and carriages. “Vraiment, madame, I know of no others Monsieur Lang has sent for your assistance.”

“Indeed. And do you know all of Mr. Lang’s dealings?”

“Thank le bon dieu, no.”

“No honor amongst spies . . . or traitors?” Her tone was mellifluous, her glance as sharp as a pickax.

Christien’s lips twitched. “What we don’t know, we cannot tell.”

“You admit it?” She jerked beside him, rocking the vehicle.

“I admit nothing.”

“But you said—”

“I have no secret that I am working with Monsieur Lang. That does not make me a traitor.” Christien let her stew over that one for a few moments while he maneuvered the team through the crush at the entrance to Hyde Park. They entered the procession of phaetons, curricles, and barouches taking advantage of the rare fine weather to parade down Rotten Row.

Most of the vehicles held couples—early Season courtships, the newly wed, others who gave Society a less than good name at times. He wondered why a Christian lady like Lydia would bring her younger sisters to London to find them husbands. It seemed the worst place for courtship if they were to make connections with godly young men. Whittaker seemed a nice enough fellow, but Christien had heard talk of the younger man’s escapades at university . . .

But men changed. He had through trial under fire.

Now to convince Lydia Gale of that fact. Or at least convince her of the facts he needed to tell her so she would work with him, not against him.

“I am not on the wrong side, Lady Gale.” He turned his head so he could look at her. “I have lived in this country since I was ten years old. England gave my family shelter and protection when our own people tried to kill us. An Englishman got us out of France and to safety. We bought land and have prospered. Why would I turn against all this to work for the Corsican monster?”

“You were in Dartmoor because you were doing just that.” She held his gaze without wavering. “You were with my husband at his death because of that—working with the Corsican monster.”

“Or was I working with your husband for England?”

Christien posed the question, then focused his attention on turning the curve in the lane without hooking wheels with a youth showing more enthusiasm than skill at driving.

Lydia said nothing. He felt her stiffness beside him. A glance told him she looked straight ahead. Those curls bobbed against her cheek, and the silk petals on her hat’s roses fluttered in the cool breeze. The rest of her remained still, motionless.

“You’re too polite to call me a liar?” Christien asked, flashing her a smile.

“Perhaps I’m too frightened to call you a liar.” The coolness of her voice evoked no hint of fear. Challenge, yes. Apprehension?

Christien slipped the reins into one hand and tucked her errant curls behind her ear. They were every bit as soft as he imagined they would be. “Then you’ll accept the possibility that I tell you the truth?”

“I saw you in that prison. Surely our government wouldn’t ask that kind of sacrifice, that kind of horror in prison, of you, of anyone working for them.”

“Ha!” His laugh burst from him.

Several matrons in a nearby carriage glanced his way, then took a second look.

He smiled at them and bowed from his seat, then he returned his attention to the lovely widow. “Men suffer far worse for causes in which they believe. Your husband saw the men go aboard the transports before going himself, and when the horses panicked, he saved men’s lives at the cost of his own, eventually. But it was a cause in which he believed—fighting Napoleon for his country.”

“Which only tells me that you endured prison for the cause you believe in—fighting the English for your country.”

Christien frowned at a pair of curricles ahead of them moving at an even slower pace than the sedate promenade that was normal in the park. A lady drove one and a gentleman drove the other. They appeared to be engaged in an intimate tête-à-tête and paying no attention at all to how they held up the progress of others.

“For a yard of tin to blow like the mail coaches,” he murmured.

Lydia laughed. “You’d probably start a stampede.”

“We’d be moving then, no?”

“Yes, we’d—”

A crunch of wood and iron colliding cut across her words. Ahead, the two curricles stood motionless with their wheels locked. The lady began to yell at the gentleman for not steering straight. He in turn made some rude remarks about ladies driving.

“I believe,” Christien drawled, “we will be here for a while.”

“You won’t go assist them?”

“Will you be here if I do?”

“You expect me to slip away from you and walk home the minute your back is turned?”

“I don’t know what to expect from you, Madame Gale.” Christien turned to face her. “You think I am up to no good. You do not like Monsieur Lang’s methods of getting you to cooperate with us.”

“Would you?”

“I don’t. I asked him not to do what he is doing, not to bring you into this. He did not listen to me. So here we are, stranded together.” He glanced toward the tangled vehicles.

Several young men had removed their coats and demonstrated their physical prowess by leading the horses out of the shafts and pulling the two curricles apart.

“They don’t need your assistance after all,” she said.

“No, but I need yours, ma chère.” He tried to look into her eyes, but her hat brim frustrated his efforts. “Without entrée into London Society, I cannot succeed. I need to move freely around and through the ton to complete my mission. With you at my side—”

“Your mission.” She gripped her reticule so hard he suspected her knuckles were white beneath her leather gloves. “The man who blackmailed me into helping you said nothing of me remaining at your side after I make introductions.”

Guts twisting, Christien drew up on the side of the path so he could face her. “What do you mean by the man who blackmailed you into helping me? Lang is from the Home Office.”

“Don’t play the innocent with me, monsieur.” Her dark eyes flashed, and a white line formed around her mouth. “I am as well aware as you that our government doesn’t need to meet ladies in dark gardens to force them—”

Christien grasped her wrist. “What dark garden?”

“As if you don’t know.” She wrinkled her nose as though smelling something revolting. “Now let us be gone before we make more of a spectacle of ourselves than we already have.”

Carriages flowed past them, and many persons stared. They needed to move on, stop drawing so much attention, but Christien’s innards told him something was terribly wrong, and he wasn’t about to move until he got the truth from Lydia.

“Tell me what garden . . . s’il vous plait,” he persisted.

“The one in Portsmouth, six days after you escaped from England against the terms of your parole.” She spoke behind a stiff smile and clenched teeth. “You know that quite well.”

“No, Madame Gale, I do not. Monsieur Lang was with me that night.”