Elizabeth Boyle (17 page)

She, too, seemed to sense the dangerous change between them and got up as well. Adjusting her clothes and gathering up her bundle, she eased away from him. Her hands steadied her rocking gait by reaching for the rusted bars of the fence enclosing the graveyard.

Sophia’s heart beat a little faster. From the moment he had stopped her at the foot of the Pont de la Concorde, she’d been trying to determine how much he knew.

Was his sudden anger evidence that he’d finally made the connection between his missing fiancée and the Brazen Angel? Had she allowed him to see past her makeup and into her soul?

If he’d discovered who she was, his jerky movements as he yanked on his clothes spoke of his apparent anger at her. And if he thought to save her, save Lady Sophia, she’d be responsible if any harm befell him. She felt the tender moments from their lovemaking fade. Try as she might, she found herself unable to gather them out of the air and hold them close to her heart. The sweet emotion, the powerful intimacy of his touch dissolved into the night, leaving her feeling as empty and cold as the heavens.

“Let us get on with this business of yours,” she said. “How can I answer anything until I know what you seek?”

“If I were to ask you a question, would you answer honestly?”

It was not quite the response Sophia sought. “Yes. If I can. But first tell me, did you come here out of duty to your country or because of what happened between us in your study?”

“I have always lived my life by duty,” he answered without a moment’s hesitation. “And I have been instructed to discover your intentions. To find out where your duty takes you.”

That finished her speculations.

And hurt far more than she expected. It also meant he didn’t recognize that she was Sophia. He’d followed the Brazen Angel to France because of duty. Perhaps even made love to her as a means to his end.

Still, there was an edge to his voice, something that told her he wasn’t being completely honest. He might be bound by his duty, but he was also a man.

One who’d left his missing betrothed for the Brazen Angel. A duty he obviously preferred to bedding his bride.

It didn’t matter that she was one and the same; the insult of it prodded her.

“Then ask your questions,” she said, trying to sound bored, “so we can be done with this foolishness.”

His gaze jerked up, blazing with anger. “Foolishness? I speak of betrayal!”

This stopped her. Oh, it was worse than she had originally thought. He couldn’t possibly think her responsible for . . . But he did, she saw it in his furious stance, his fevered gaze. It hurt to realize he thought her capable of such a crime, but what else did he know of her? She’d robbed men, she’d crossed the borders of war for her own means, she’d made love with him on what could be seen as a whim. She’d made a terrible mess of it and now she had to find a way to be rid of him. To send him home and protect him from the terrible danger surrounding them.

“I haven’t betrayed anyone . . . lately,” she added. “Try my patience, though, and you will find just how short my sense of honor can be.”

“Honor? What would you know of—” His words cut off, as if he considered how far he dare push her. His quick gaze swept over her, measuring their surroundings.

Backed as she was into the comer of the fence, it probably appeared she was trapped.

Good, Lord Trahern. Underestimate me once again.

Sophia resisted the urge to smile at him.

“What would I know about honor?” she repeated for him. “I suppose not much if I followed your rules. But here in France the rules have changed.”

“And you change right along with them.”

She nodded. “I’ve no choice. So will you if you want to survive.” Walking over to their remaining discarded clothes, she picked up her cap and wig. Next to them lay his coat, and from the pocket sparkled a tantalizing hint of gold.

The Delaney bracelet! She glanced back, and when she realized he wasn’t watching she plucked it out of his pocket and dropped it into her own.

Resisting the urge to smile, she turned back toward him.

If she’d learned anything as the Brazen Angel, it was that sometimes the most direct approach startled someone into revealing their weaknesses.

And she wanted to taunt him. Not too much, but just enough to sting his pride as he’d wounded hers.

“You want to know who I am, and whose side I am on,” she said in a level voice. Her gaze locked on his, searching for a reaction. His eyes flickered, but only for a second.

Oh, he’s good, she thought as she planned her next statement, but not good enough for this.

“You were sent here to discover how I am connected to your agent’s death. You want to find out what I know about Webb Dryden.”

G
iles flinched as if she’d punched him in the gut.

How could she know so much?

Then he thought of her strange pronouncement earlier on the bridge—about not having any more deaths on her conscience.

Had she been warning him that he too could share Webb’s fate?

If anything, they’d more than underestimated her knowledge of the Foreign Office. Dryden would be stunned to hear of this incredible leak.

“What do you know of Webb?” he demanded. “Tell me, dammit.”

“Why? So you can join him in the grave?” She shook her head. “Go home, Englishman. I’ll not allow you to follow in your friend’s footsteps.”

“And how will you stop me?” He stepped closer to her, controlling the urge to shake the truth out of her. “As I said before, there is no one to save you tonight.”

She backed up until her body pressed to the rusty bars of the fence. “I don’t need any diversions or timely rescue to save myself.” Her sapphire eyes mocked him. “Your arrogance that only you can solve this puzzle will be our downfall. Believe me, you will not survive Paris if you continue on this foolhardy search. Go home.”

She reached over and caught hold of one of the tightly spaced bars of the fence. It groaned and scraped beneath her assault.

Only then did he notice that the bar she held was not as rusted as the others, that it appeared to have been put in place deliberately. To his horror he saw its purpose.

Beneath her grip it popped free.

All too late he realized that she was about to best him once again. He lunged for her, but not fast enough. She slipped through the opening and darted out of reach.

He tried to follow, only to find that the space was just enough for a child or small woman to escape.

His rage seethed at the unreachable lady before him. “Dammit, tell me of Webb. If you think you’ve stopped me you’re wrong. I will find you. I will.”

“Go home,” she pleaded, her voice losing its mocking tone and taking on a sincere quality. “Wait for me in London. I know where to find you. If you will wait for me there, I promise to bring you the information you seek. No tricks, no deceptions, only the truth. Believe me.”

Giles watched in futility as her departing figure disappeared around the corner. He saw no point in giving chase. By the time he got back to the street and around the block, she would be long gone. With her demonstrated knowledge of the city she could be anywhere from the Corn Market to the ruins of the Bastille.

He slammed his fist into the marble monument behind him. Pain exploded in his hand, shooting up his arm, bringing him to his senses.

Wait for her in London? Believe her?

He swore vehemently and thoroughly at his own stupidity, at his lust, at the way she twisted his heart. Turning to leave his grim surroundings, he nearly tripped over her jacket, which lay crumpled on the ground where he’d pulled it from her body.

While it hardly seemed worth the effort, he never left any clue unexamined. Sitting down on a grave marker, he went through the pockets one at a time, looking for anyplace she could have hidden a message or coding device.

His fingers locked on to something hard and smooth, the prize he pulled out stunning him in its simplistic beauty and tremendous value.

“It seems in your haste to leave, Lady Brazen, you forgot something,” he whispered toward the open railing in the fence. He hefted the gold signet ring in his palm, its weight astounding him.

A ring so rich was worn only by the wealthiest noblemen or merchants.

Stealing again, I see
, he thought before turning it over to examine the insignia.

A fleur-de-lis and a swan
.

The emblem sent chills up and down his limbs.

Frantically he searched in his own pockets for the scrap of fabric he’d carried with him since the night of the Parkers’ ball. He held up the silver and white brocade next to the ring, shaking his head over the identical designs.

A fleur-de-lis and a swan.

Since he didn’t believe in coincidence, the crest had to belong very close to the Brazen Angel’s heart. He smiled to himself. “This may just give me the information I need to find out who you are,” he said into the night, turning the ring over and over as he inspected it.

The ring, worn with age, was the type usually passed from nobleman to heir through the ages. And removed from the elder’s hand only when he died.

He looked back at the hole where she’d escaped.

Perhaps the Angel was on a mission of revenge for a killer. Or she might be seeking the man who could claim the ring. Or perhaps she just carried it as a talisman. He could speculate the rest of the night away, but it wouldn’t solve her mystery.

There was, though, one way to find some more answers.

Ignoring his body’s desire to follow her, he retraced his steps and returned to the Sow’s Ear.

Sophia paused on the third flight of stairs up to her attic lodgings. Her reluctance to continue the final flight stemmed from a strong need to sort out her conflicting feelings about the evening’s events.

On one hand she was furious with Giles for not recognizing her, though it was only a further testament to Emma’s incredible skills. She should be celebrating that he had yet to make the connection between the engaging Brazen Angel and the mild and meek Sophia.

But on the other hand it enraged her that he sought the company of the Brazen Angel, not that of his fiancée. He’d flirted outrageously with her, taken her as a lover, and boldly pledged his claim on her life.

What had he said as he’d brought her to the brink?

From this night forward you belong to me
.

She shivered, as if he’d whispered the words once again into her ear.

It was true, she knew. She did belong to him. In a way she couldn’t stop. It was as if he’d bound her with a rope, locked her away, and at the same time opened all the windows and offered to teach her to fly with the birds.

Then he claimed their night was nothing more than an act of duty.

Was this how he conducted all his missions for the Foreign Office?

No wonder he was so dedicated to his country, she thought with a huff.

And what if they did, indeed, end up married?

Would he share her bed and dream of another? Or just share his bed with others? “The dog,” she muttered before she stopped herself.

Sophia sighed, wondering how she’d let her imagination get this far.

She was jealous of herself.

Picking absently at the wax on her nose and cheeks that Emma had painstakingly applied to transform her into an old hag, Sophia realized what a horrible mistake she’d made.

She’d let her fears of the days to come divert her, allowed herself to fall prey to the false security he offered. If he knew who she was and what she knew of Webb, he’d haul her back to London and lock her away.

Looking out the hall window, she stared across the skyline, which was now turning pink with the coming dawn. Still, all she wanted to do was go back to the cemetery— convince him to trust her, beg his help in her final hours.

She shook her head and continued up the steps. It was bad enough she’d allowed Emma and Oliver to become entangled in her plans. She wouldn’t allow anyone else to put their life at stake. The only thing she could do was survive so someday she could try and find a way to make him understand her duplicity.

Reaching for the childish comfort of her ring, Sophia realized she’d left it in her jacket.

And she’d left that in the cemetery. Her heart sank at its loss. By the time she returned to the churchyard it would be daylight, and the risk too great. She sighed, clenching and unclenching her fist, frustrated at the emptiness of it.

Quietly, she opened the door to their lodgings, hoping to slip in unnoticed. Emma and Oliver were probably still asleep. Two steps into their apartment, she realized sleep had been the farthest thing from her friends’ minds.

“Where have you been?” Emma demanded. Between furious puffs on her pipe, she followed Sophia from the doorway to the fireplace.

So much for dodging this conversation until later, Sophia realized as she stuck her hands out to warm them in front of the flames. Even the usually agreeable Oliver sat with his arms crossed over his barrel chest, his brown eyes full of unspoken admonitions.

No help in that quarter.

“I was detained,” she answered with a noncommittal shrug. She didn’t want to start discussing Lord Trahern with Emma. It had been bad enough when she’d escaped his house in her underwear. Emma had teased her about that little episode for days.

Emma choked on her pipe. “Detained?”

“Do we need to discuss this now? I am very tired and I—”

“You slip in here like a thief and nonchalantly tell us you were detained? I think you owe us an explanation.”

“Well, I got away.”

Emma did not appear all that impressed. The clouds of smoke curled around her dark head. “That does it. You’re going home.” Sophia’s companion began pulling their traveling bags out from beneath the narrow bed.

“Home?” Sophia protested. “I will not. Not now. Not when we’re this close.”

“Oliver and I can easily finish the work here. You’re going home.” Emma began opening the cupboards and pulling out Sophia’s clothes. “Now that the authorities have seen you, there will be no saving you if you are caught again.” Though older than Sophia by only five years, Emma was beginning to act like the aged puritanical companion Sophia’s aunts thought they’d hired.