Her Quicksilver Lover: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 6 (9 page)

So how was that different to what she did already? She collected gossip about society goings-on, but that was all. She did not involve herself in state affairs. What would she have done had she discovered something that proved Amidei was a spy for a foreign government?

Everything in her rejected that notion. He had even pulled back from their kiss, when she would have given all to him. He behaved like a gentleman.

Collecting gossip was one thing, but this was quite another. Journalists worked at establishments where they could hear things. It wasn’t as if she was the only person doing that. Only last week White’s turned off a footman for selling his story to the
Spectator
. It was like a game that everybody played, going round and round until they were all dizzy. But this was prying at a completely different level. It would involve deceiving the people who were employing her, deceiving them. Deceiving
him
.

Joanna was nothing if not honest. That was the crux of the matter. She had gained an unfortunate tendre for Lord d’Argento, and it was colouring all her reactions. Mr. Gough was a government man asking her to undertake an important task for her country. She should be glad to help. She would learn more.

“We do not wish you to undertake any dangerous activities or call attention to yourself, but in effect, yes, we want you to discover whatever you can. For your country,” he added. “We will help, and if you can get any of our agents in the house, then they can take over the task.”

“What do you expect me to find?”

He watched her for a minute, as unconcerned with the silence as she had been. At least his hands were relaxed and no sign of tension marked his face. “Do you remember the riots of last year? The ones that originated in Bedlam?”

She blinked. Surely he did not think that foreigners were automatically mad? She would see where this thread took her. “Yes, I remember. What of it?”

“The main perpetrator was a close friend of the owner of the club. The Marquis of Stretton helped to set up the Pantheon, although he does not take an active part in running it. We know beyond doubt that he began the riot.”

Shock arced through her. How did she not know that? The riot had been extensively reported, but the man who led the parade through the streets was given a derisory nickname. Nobody knew who he really was. Except, it appeared, this man and the government. If he was telling the truth. “Truly? Why would he do that?”

Mr. Gough’s mouth flattened in a grim line. “To help his friend. While Stretton was leading his spectacular distraction, d’Argento completed the sale on his club and set up the lines of communication that we have been fortunate enough to interrupt occasionally. That is why. We know that people are sending messages to and from that house. If you can obtain a few of those, that would help us.”

“How and where are they being sent?”

The corners of his mouth relaxed. “We do not know. We have intercepted some messages at the coast, which is what alerted us to the club. Anything that appears odd to you, then we would appreciate knowing. Do not prevent the messages passing through. Take copies, if you can.”

“I see.”

His story sounded plausible. Amidei had said he employed a few odd characters. Did he know that he was harbouring traitors? Mr. Gough certainly thought he was. “Mr. Gough—”

“Call me Patrick, please.”

A little too familiar for her, but she would, if he wanted her to. “Did you know that the comte had an English mother?”

He paused, stilled completely for the space of a heartbeat. “No, I did not. Please, that is exactly the information we need to know. Tidbits and traits. The comte invented his title, we know that much.”

That was not what he’d told her. Amidei had promised to answer her truthfully, and she believed he had. If he had not, then she had to reconsider the way she assessed other people, because every instinct had told her he was telling her the truth.

A turmoil of confusion whirled inside her. Patrick Gough appeared completely sincere, and he had given her father proofs of who he was. Did that mean she was falling—attracted to a traitor? What could Amidei hope to achieve by his actions? He could obtain secrets in far less expensive and easier ways. When she examined Patrick’s claims, more holes appeared, but were they because she had formed a connection with Amidei that she had never dreamed of with anyone?

She needed to trust someone.

“Tell him about the feet,” her father suggested.

She knew what he meant at once. Frowning, she asked, “What does that have to do with the matter?”

“It may have significance.”

The fire flared up. Patrick watched her, revealing a face of handsome immutability, and warmth spread through her body and her mind, easing her into trusting him, into letting go.
He is telling the truth,
a little voice told her.
He needs to know everything. Look at him, how handsome, how honest he is.

No, she refused to do that until she assessed the situation for herself. Snapping her defences back, she stared him out. “I will help you if I come across anything that is definitely seditious.” And if what she discovered did not involve Amidei, she would tell him too. That would even the score, even if it cost her the trust Amidei now had in her. “I’m there, as no doubt you know, to collect society gossip, anything to sell the journal.” She glanced at her father. “Papa, if you do not want me to do that, then I won’t.” As always, her father was the person she looked to for immediate guidance.

“Indeed, my daughter, I do. And if you can help Mr. Gough as well, I would desire you to do that also. If this does not trouble your conscience.”

“You mean that, Papa?”

“Indeed I do. A person has to be at peace with their actions.”

When she turned back to Mr. Gough, he did not appear pleased. That firm line was back. “Sometimes a person has to do something for their country that they would rather not attempt.”

She would not argue with him, but neither did she want to agree with him. A wisp of uneasiness stirred within her.

Mr. Gough reached out and took her hand between both of his. Joanna blinked, her throat tightening as she sucked in a quick breath. “Madam, I admire your wisdom, and I will not force you to do anything that goes against your conscience. But your country’s safety is at stake. If this is a nest of spies, it needs rooting out and dispersing. Surely you can understand that?” His voice lowered, forcing intimate communication. “Sometimes a man must sacrifice himself for his country. And for a woman.” He squeezed her hand gently. “Are you ready to do this? It could be dangerous, if they catch you.”

Her father spoke before she did. “She said she saw the factotum of the club, a Mr. Lightfoot, with his shoes and stockings off.”

Her heart sank. She had fended off that part of the conversation, and now her father had brought her back to it in a way she could not avoid.

Patrick’s eyes widened and a flash brightened them. At the same time, something stirred in her mind, as if someone else occupied her head. Patently ridiculous, of course. But as she struggled to cope with the phenomenon, she felt the presence of someone else, as if Amidei stood just out of sight, but present in the room, behind her, touching her, keeping her safe.

The odd sensation left her mind and she worked to behave normally, while she tried to cope with this new experience.

“What did you see?” Patrick said softly.

This was ridiculous. She was imagining things. “I saw a man with very hairy legs and strangely shaped feet. Mr. Lightfoot is obviously affected by an unusual condition, or he has suffered an accident of some kind and I feel sorry that this is so. His affliction can have nothing to do with our discussion.”

“It might.” Patrick did not let go of her hand, though she wished he would. If she tugged it away she’d be displaying weakness, so she let it remain where it was. He chafed it, as if comforting her. She let him believe he was doing so, to give herself time to think. “If a man befriends an afflicted person, that person may become more devoted to him.”

He was talking about Amidei.

Patrick gave her a gentle smile and continued, “A man like that can gather the afflicted around him. Look what damage Lord Stretton did.”

If it was Lord Stretton, and if the riot was more than a prank gone wrong. Joanna was by no means convinced of that. She only had Patrick’s word for it. But she said nothing. If her father had taught her anything, it was not to trust any one source over another, and she would need confirmation before she believed. The riot when people had escaped from Bedlam had ended in the Drury Lane theatre, and one woman had died. While that was unfortunate, out of all the people involved and all the seeming chaos, only one person had lost her life. Joanna had wondered about that at the time, and she wondered now. Riots usually involved many more deaths than just one.

“We believe that the man calling himself the Comte d’Argento has gathered people around him who will stop at nothing to serve him. So far we do not know which country holds his loyalty, or if he is merely selling what he discovers to the highest bidder. I need to know more about him, much more.”

All that vacillating between “I” and “we” did not tell Joanna if she was talking to one person or the representative of many. Perhaps he meant her to think that way, to confuse his motives for doing this.

“Can you do this for me, Joanna? I hate to ask a woman to do such dangerous work, but sometimes it is necessary for the country’s safety. If you discover proof of treason, you will be this nation’s heroine. The work will be rewarded, but you cannot expect public accolades for it.”

“What rewards?” Perhaps this was the answer. Did he want something he did not have?

He gave a gentle smile. “Perhaps you, Joanna, are the wife I am looking for.”

Chapter Eight

This situation was growing more bizarre by the minute. Did he mean what he said? “Wife?” she said numbly. Even her father started.

“Why would you do that?” he demanded. “What would you obtain by marrying my Joanna?”

At last Patrick released her hands, but to hold up a calming one. “If we say I am Joanna’s betrothed, my visits here would not be taken amiss.”

“Is not your role as patron enough?” she said.

He shook his head. “I plan to be here often. Even the most assiduous patron would not do that. But the notion that I am your intended would not evoke any suspicion. People gossip, and you have lived here long enough for your neighbours to get to know you.”

Joanna didn’t like it. “Do we have to do this?”

“Would it hurt you so much? Besides, if that pretence should turn into the real thing, then I would not be entirely sorry for it.”

“Just partially sorry?” she said before she could censor herself.

His gentle smile turned into a laugh. “Not sorry at all,” he said.

The import of what he was saying jolted Joanna into reality. “You cannot mean that you would wish to marry me in truth. We only met this morning.”

“I would be proud to call you my wife.”

Joanna sat there, blinking. “Wife?” She was beginning to sound like a parrot now, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Allow me to explain.” He took a sip of his brandy before he continued. “I am the son of a viscount. My father is urging me to marry, as my older brother and his wife have not yet been fortunate enough to produce an heir. I am in no hurry, because I have set my heart on winning myself a partner, not just a breeder.”

Either fate had not particularly appealed to Joanna before. But this man was, by all accounts, well off. He was young enough, handsome, and masculinity oozed from every pore. His teeth were good—important when one would be expected to kiss him—and he was possessed of more than average intelligence. At least, she’d thought so before he mentioned the wife part.

And she was assessing him as if he was a horse. What would make him consider an idiotic thing like that?

He grimaced. “Indeed, my father has already chosen a wife for me. Suffice it to say that she is exceedingly repulsive to me. She is slovenly, and she has very little intelligence.”

Joanna would be completely dependent on him. No, that was perhaps not entirely fair. He had shown Joanna nothing that indicated he thought in that way. But what other reason would a man have to choose a poor girl of no fortune? “I have nothing to bring to a marriage, sir. No fortune of any kind, no influential relatives. Nothing.” Saying it aloud compounded her melancholy fate, one she refused to dwell upon normally. This time, she had to.

“I would not say that. If I chose you, Joanna, I would have a woman of intelligence by my side. A lovely one too.” His gaze lingered on her decently covered breasts before returning to her face. She repressed a shiver when his perusal stripped her bare. “I would have a wife of my choosing, not one imposed upon me. Of course we cannot be certain on such brief acquaintance, but it would be adequate reward for your work for our country, and I would not have to worry about my father forcing that woman on me. I would treat you well, never fear. If I present my father with a respectable wife as a
fait accompli
, he would be content enough. He wants an heir.”

“I always wanted my daughter to be as happy as I was,” her father said softly. “I loved my wife dearly. When she was taken from us, all I had to live for was Joanna. I am content for you to visit, and try to fix her interest, but no more. Do not tell anyone you are betrothed to her until I agree.”

At least he did that for her. But she could not rely on her father to come to an agreement. What would she do then? Marry him? She almost laughed at the idea.

“In the meantime I can talk to you alone with complete propriety. So will you agree to let people think I am sweet on you to give my visits here sanction?”

“Is not the fact that you have an interest in the paper enough?” she said mildly.

“No. I might need to call on you privately. Please be assured I will always act with the utmost propriety, but we need to hurry this business, root out the nest before it takes hold. If what I believe has happened tonight continues on its course, then I will be happy to take you to the nearest church to sanction our union.”

Joanna glanced at her father, easily reading the lines of tension on his face. If she refused to help Patrick, he could walk away, and then they’d really be in a pickle. With nobody to pay the rent or sell the papers, they’d have to sell their one source of income—the printing press.

She lowered her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “I accept your proposal. I will help you.”

* * * * *

Intent on greeting his new guest, Amidei strode downstairs in full d’Argento mode. His wig was perfectly tied and powdered, his lips held the faintest trace of rouge, his coat was white and his waistcoat silver. Nobody would confuse him with the working man who had trailed Joanna to her father’s house.

Nor should they. Diamonds glinted on his hands and throat and marched down the front of his waistcoat and coat. They twinkled on his shoe buckles and at his knee. Nothing could touch him like this, not even meeting a man who had been one of his best friends in a previous incarnation.

This version of Apollo might not even remember. If they were not taught properly, they could assume they were purely human, that their gifts were oddities, to be hidden or suppressed. Since Amidei had some acquaintance with Apollo’s sisters, at least he knew that was not the case. This Apollo knew who he was.

Like many of the new generation, the family had a tragic history. When the Duke of Boscobel had murdered Amidei’s contemporaries, in order to replace them with his own puppets, the ones that got away had only done so at a cost of blood and tears aplenty. Apollo was one of them.

Amidei entered the main salon cautiously, quizzing glass at the ready. Men and women sat here, so both sexes witnessed his entrance. He had prepared for that. Anyone watching him would not know his inner turmoil, not even other immortals. He was older than most, and skilled at hiding the emotions he wanted concealed.

He took his most arrogant pose, chin up, eyelids half closed, head tilted very slightly to one side and quizzing glass raised to his eye. He surveyed the room, taking his time, ignoring the occupants. Considering the season was several weeks off as yet, the club was creditably full.
Gratifying.

Not that Amidei gave that more than a passing thought. Ignoring the cries of people he was passing and invitations to join them, he set off down the room towards his quarry.

The man sat with his back to his host, but every step Amidei took brought him closer, increasing the pulse of awareness between them. This was not merely another immortal returning to the place where he was sure of finding others—this was Apollo. Amidei’s best friend, his comrade in arms, the man he spent so many hours with.

No. It was the god in the body of someone else. Apollo he might be, but he was not Arthur Seymour, scion of a great family, roister and rogue. He was the Earl of Wickhampton, a man from the north of England who had two sisters, and had recently lost his brother. Amidei was involved in Wickhampton’s brother’s death. Would the man resent him for that?

The man turned, putting his profile into view. His perfect profile, of course. Apollo was the most handsome of the gods, and that was certainly reflected in the features of the man who had just deigned to notice him. The shock did not affect him as it had before.

Amidei grinned, but not so that it would show. He kept his wry pleasure to himself. The man exuded graceful power, and if Amidei was honest, he probably had more presence than Arthur had possessed. But he was a stranger, and likely to remain so, if his original, cool demeanour continued.

Wickhampton got to his feet with a graceful swirl of his dark blue coat skirts, leaning immediately into a bow so graceful that several ladies sighed. “Delighted to meet you, Lord d’Argento.”

Amidei inclined his head and bowed in his turn. “Lord Wickhampton. I trust your journey was not too arduous?” His heart rate was finally slowing. Every time he thought of Apollo, he recalled his friend, expecting to see him. That he did not came as a constant disappointment. One day he would get over the emotion, but he would never stop grieving.

“Not at all.” A sapphire ring glinted as Wickhampton rose, a gentle smile wreathing his mouth. “Most restful. Unfortunately. I could find no trace of the—person—you asked me to contact on your behalf.” Amidei had sent a message, requesting his help. That was business. This meeting was so much more than that.

“Ah, yes. I am sorry you had a wasted journey.”

“Oh, I would not call it that. Won’t you take a seat?”

Amidei eyed the armless chair. “I would like nothing better.” Flicking up his skirts, he sat. He would not even attempt to compete with Apollo’s grace on retaking his seat, but he had some of his own, and he deployed it now, letting his Italian accent highlight his words. “How did you find Paris?”

“Empty,” his lordship said. “These days most people are in Versailles. Only the government and the ordinary people linger in Paris. A shame, I think, because the city has a beautiful aspect.”
What happened? The woman had fled.

The mental communication startled Amidei. It came so easily and fluidly, it reminded him of the old days. The newer gods were less comfortable with the way they could converse privately, and many preferred to use verbal speech.

He was more than capable of replying.
You alerted her. She came here. After creating disturbances that nearly got her and her lover killed, she married someone else.
“I have not visited Paris for years. As you say, the court flocks to Versailles. Elegant to most senses, except that of the nose.”

“Indeed, and that is probably why the king prefers his smaller house on the estate. They say if the wind is in the right quarter, you can smell Versailles all the way to Paris.”
Venus?

She married Vulcan. You can guess who she had the affair with.
“For a man who disliked Versailles, you spent quite a time there.”

“Indeed I did. I said all senses but one.” He flourished his glass, half filled with ruby liquid. It glistened in the light of Amidei’s best wax candles. “The ladies are also most accommodating.”
Round heeled, not to say eager. Did you not spend time there?

Amidei shrugged, aware of exactly how that sent the diamond buttons on his coat glittering. “They have little else to do.”
Not as much as most people believe. I travelled further afield, searching.

You must have known most were in Britain.

I was not sure. Boscobel recruited his puppets from all over Europe.

The corner of Wickhampton’s mouth twitched. “I must admit I am glad to return home. I have reunited with my sisters, who are, understandably, subdued.” Not a line marked his face, but Amidei saw the sadness in his eyes.

“My condolences on your brother’s passing. He was a giant of a man in more ways than one.” But not in intellect. His devotion to his sisters was admirable, but they should have kept him living quietly in Yorkshire. The commotion he had caused in life and death had taken a great deal of smoothing over.
I fear his death led to some undue attention from unwelcome quarters.

They had slipped so deep into the lines of communication that nobody else could have overheard them, not even the most powerful of immortals. Perhaps Wickhampton had inherited more than his predecessor’s godlike attributes. They had conversed that way in the past, more familiar than brothers.

Then I must help.
“My sisters will be arriving back in London soon, eager to enjoy the season. I have sent for them.”

“Your sisters do as you tell them?” The thought amused Amidei. The ladies Damaris and Nerine were not the easiest damsels to control.

“They do as I ask.” He paused. “If I ask pleasantly. When it suits them.” He smiled then, transforming him to one of the happiest men in the world. When he smiled, Apollo dazzled.

Amidei blinked. He had not seen a smile quite like that ever before. His old friend Seymour had the dazzle, but he’d applied it rather than having it come from somewhere deep inside. Perhaps this Apollo might eclipse his predecessor. He laughed with the man, and nodded to Lightfoot, who brought a bottle of wine. “I trust you like burgundy? Or would you prefer something else? We have an excellent cellar here.”

They fell to discussing wines and spirits, and the benefits of each. Conversation rolled easily between them. Others joined them, and while Amidei was conscious of the joie de vivre, he kept Apollo under close observation, trying to learn him again. Of course he was aware of the same courtesy being accorded him.

Cautiously, Amidei began to wonder if at last, he had found some of what he’d lost thirty-one years ago.

* * * * *

When she caught herself dressing with more care in the morning, Joanna paused. Her hands on her snowy white, fine fichu, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. That would never do. Stripping off the cap with its modest frill of lace, she replaced it with her usual heavier, plain, and eminently more practical one. That was better. She pulled her spare pair of spectacles out of the drawer and put them on. Better still. But she’d keep the fichu. Mrs. Holdsworth liked her staff neat and tidy.

The thought of the day ahead sent a thrill through her, because today she would see him again. Foolish, but the feeling came independent of her rationality. He was her enemy, according to Mr. Gough. Patrick, he wanted her to call him. While the name Amidei came naturally to her, she found Patrick more difficult, although she had no idea why.

Leaving her room, she clattered down the stairs and plucked her cloak and hat from the pegs in the office. Her father was gone. She was so used to the heavy, thumping sound of the press operating, shaking the flimsy house to its foundations, when it had started at three this morning, she had only turned over in bed and grabbed another two hours of sleep. Her father distributed the journals to the coffeehouses himself and paid half a dozen street urchins sixpence each to sell them on the street. More often than not he made far more copies than they needed. Tonight would probably be the same, unless there was a hanging at Tyburn later. He could sell several copies there, because it could take hours before the condemned reached the scaffold. Neither Joanna nor her father enjoyed hangings, but it was the way of life, and starting a campaign against the practice would only end in plummeting circulation and howls of fury from the mob. The mob relished its hanging days.