Mary Jo Putney (21 page)

She desired him as much as he desired her.
 
She wanted to yield to his wishes, to promise to be only his, to talk and laugh and love with him so that the hard lines of his face would soften into the irresistible tenderness he'd shown tonight. The only power she wanted over him was the power to make him happy.

It would be treacherously easy to center her world around him and his demands, but that was not what she had come to London for. Diana already understood some of the complex currents that lay between them, and sensed that there was far more beyond her comprehension. Like her, Gervase had been gravely wounded by life, and he had done less healing than she had. Until she understood the origins and depths of his pain, there could be no worthwhile future for them.

She drew herself into a tight little ball, her arms wrapped around herself in an attempt to regain the warmth she had felt earlier. No matter how hard it was, she would resist that insidious desire to surrender. Someday, God willing, she could safely surrender to Lord St. Aubyn, but much must change first. She wanted them to be equals in their loving, not master and slave.

Diana shivered uncontrollably, knowing that it was not simple fate that had joined them, but the goddess Nemesis herself. Nemesis, the goddess of retributive justice. Had Diana known what was to be, she would have stayed at High Tor Cottage, but it was far too late for retreat. The thread that joined her to Gervase was now too powerful to be denied.

In the days ahead, she would play the role of independent woman and he could accept that or not, as he chose. Even as she made the silent vow, she wondered if she could keep it.

As she'd told Gervase, tears came easily to her. When she buried her face in the pillow, she was unsure whether she wept from joy or sorrow.

Chapter 8

The dinner hour was long past and Whitehall nearly deserted when the British foreign minister paid Lord St. Aubyn a visit. George Canning was brilliant, unpredictable, and very, very ambitious. Ever since William Pitt, the guiding spirit of the Tory party, had died a year and a half earlier, the party had been fighting bitterly over who among them was most fit to wear the great man's mantle.

Virtually the only thing the Tories agreed on was the necessity of defeating the French, but more of their energy went into fighting each other. It was a battle Gervase had little taste or patience for.

He was deep in a pile of reports from Portugal when Canning's entrance caused him to look up. He narrowed his eyes consideringly. Politics is a matter of personalities, and Gervase's army service and friendship with Sir Arthur Wellesley in India had allied him with the war minister, Castlereagh, one of Wellesley's closest friends.

Since the foreign minister and the war minister had overlapping responsibilities and there was fierce, covert rivalry between them, Canning automatically regarded Gervase with suspicion. Usually the two dealt indirectly. This was the first time Canning had sought him out. Gervase stood, glad of an opportunity to stretch, and offered his hand. "Good evening, Canning. You're working late."

Then he stiffened. Behind the foreign minister was another man, a Frenchman who was one of the viscount's chief suspects for the spy called the Phoenix.

After shaking hands, Canning waved casually at his companion. "I'm sure you two know each other."

The Count de Veseul, elegant in black, gave a debonair smile. "But of course we do, though it is a thousand pities society does not see more of Lord St. Aubyn."

Gervase accepted the Frenchman's proffered hand without enthusiasm. There were other men who might be the Phoenix, but Gervase rather hoped Veseul was the culprit. Under his unctuous charm and his air of secret amusement, the Frenchman had the audacity, intelligence, and viciousness to dare anything.

His face reflecting none of his thoughts, Gervase asked blandly, "Have you come to work here in Whitehall, Veseul? Heaven knows we are understaffed."

The Frenchman waved his gold-headed cane gracefully. "Work?
Moi?
I am a lily of the field. I toil not, neither do I spin. I leave such things to diligent fellows like you."

Raising his brows, Gervase murmured, "You underrate your accomplishments. Surely the tying of such cravats is a life's work in itself."

"Ah, but that is not work, that is art," Veseul said soulfully. "I am a master of many obscure forms of artistic endeavor."
 
His black eyes gleamed with amusement, confirming Gervase's suspicion that this conversation took place on two levels. The Frenchman knew what kind of work the viscount did, probably guessed that he himself was suspected of spying, and took private, smug satisfaction in this sparring.

Canning broke in. "Veseul and I will be dining at White's. Care to join us?"

Gervase shook his head with feigned regret. "Sorry, I've several hours' work ahead of me."

"In that case, there is a brief matter of business I'd like to go over with you before I leave."

When Gervase looked pointedly at the French count, Canning said impatiently, "We can speak freely in front of Veseul. No one loathes Bonaparte like an exiled royalist."

Gervase said nothing, just continued to look at the count. Unfazed by that cool regard, Veseul smiled broadly. "I'll wait downstairs for you, George. Suspicion is an occupational hazard in St. Aubyn's work." Touching his fingers to his brow in a mocking salute, he left.

When they were alone, the foreign minister scowled at Gervase. "You were bloody rude to Veseul."

Gervase settled back behind his desk. "The man is almost certainly a French agent. Strictly off the record, I'd advise you to be careful what you say in front of him."

Canning looked startled as he settled in the one straight wooden chair that the small room offered guests. "That's a damned serious accusation. Can you prove it?"

"If I could, Veseul wouldn't be wandering around loose," Gervase said dryly. "I may never have proof. I am merely suggesting that you mind what you say in front of him."

The foreign minister nodded thoughtfully, then turned to the business that had brought him here. "The information you provided made the Copenhagen campaign a success."

Gervase shook his head. "I just coordinated information from a number of sources. Military intelligence doesn't win battles. Soldiers do."

"Yes, but
lack of military intelligence can lose a battle."

"True," Gervase agreed, curious where this was leading.

"You're very good at what you do. Getting you to take this post was one of the best things Pitt did." Canning's voice was clipped and his compliment sounded grudging.

"I'd be surprised if that is all you came here to say."

"Quite right." Canning's eyes wandered a bit, then came back with a snap. "They say that you have the best information files in the country. Do you also keep them on Englishmen?"

"No." Gervase's voice was flat. "If you want ammunition to use on your opponents, look elsewhere."

Canning grimaced. "More concerned about someone having ammunition to use on me."

Gervase sighed. "Canning, I am here for one reason only: to contribute what I can to sending that Corsican bastard to the hell he so richly deserves. I'm not a politician and have no interest in becoming a minister or gathering power for myself. That's why I survived the fall of Addington's government last spring, and I fully intend to survive the fall of Portland's administration, and as many other governments as we have between now and the time Napoleon is defeated."

Canning smiled crookedly. "With the amount of laudanum Portland takes every day, he probably won't even notice when his government collapses."

Gervase glanced at his visitor sharply, wondering if Canning was trying to provoke him into saying something indiscreet. Perhaps not; Canning was notoriously plain-spoken.

The minister continued, "Came here to thank you, St. Aubyn. I took a lot of criticism over the Danish campaign. Public opinion was on the side of the Danes, and we came off looking like thieves and bullies. If it weren't for you, we might have been losers as well, which would have been far worse."

Gervase frowned. The Copenhagen business had left a bad taste in his mouth. "I didn't like it either, but you were right to invade Denmark. If you hadn't, Bonaparte would have taken the Danish fleet and used it against us. Without our superiority at sea..." He shrugged eloquently.

The last statement needed no completion. One by one the Continental powers had fallen, until only Britain held out. It was a stalemate: the French could not defeat the British at sea, and Britain was unable to take the battle to Napoleon on land. If the British ever lost their marine superiority, Bonaparte would invade and the long war might be over, with Britain one more nation bowing to the emperor.

The direction of the conversation caused Gervase to mention something he'd been considering. "The action you took to secure the Swedish fleet should keep the Baltic Sea a British lake, but there's another neutral navy at risk: the Portuguese."

Canning nodded glumly, the weight of affairs falling heavily over him. "I've been thinking about that. Do you have reason to believe the French will try to annex it?"

Gervase gestured at the pile of papers on his desk. "I'm piecing together information now. The full report should be ready for you in two or three days, but my guess is that if the Portuguese aren't persuaded to remove their fleet within the next few weeks. Napoleon will have it."

Canning pursed his lips is a soft whistle. "That soon?"

"I'm afraid so."

The foreign minister frowned for a moment, then smiled wryly. "It's time I made myself even more unpopular. At least the Portuguese are more likely to listen to us than the Danes were." He stood indecisive for a moment. "Thank you. Been told to be wary of you, but I expect that was just politicking. I think you look sound, and your recommendations have always worked out."

Gervase stood also and murmured, "How satisfying to know that I have your approval."

Ignoring the sarcasm, Canning gave him an assessing glance. "Could use a man of your abilities. If you throw in your lot with me, you'll go far."

His voice cool, Gervase said, "My hereditary seat in the House of Lords is quite sufficient. You may comfort yourself with the knowledge that I will not let my information sources be used by anyone else for political purposes."

"Suppose I'll have to settle for that."

For the first time Gervase smiled. "Yes, you will."

Canning nodded acknowledgment, then left, pulling the door closed after him as Gervase subsided behind his desk, feeling very tired. Canning was not the first politician to try to subvert the viscount, and doubtless he wouldn't be the last.

Pulling out his gold watch, he saw that it was after nine o'clock. It had been three days since that incredible night with Diana Lindsay, and there wasn't a waking hour when he hadn't thought of her. He had resisted the urge to see her again too soon. While Gervase reluctantly conceded that he needed women in a general way, he certainly didn't need any female in particular.

Having proved his willpower, he now had an overwhelming desire to see her again, to bask in her warm, sweet sensuality. Scribbling a quick note, he found one of the porters still on duty and paid the man a guinea to take the message to 17 Charles Street and wait for a reply.

Then he returned to his endless reports, balancing the honesty and accuracy of one agent or informant against another, laying the basis for recommendations that might influence the life or death of hundreds of people he would never meet. He became so absorbed that it was almost a surprise when the porter entered the small office and handed back his original note, which had been resealed with the imprint of a cupid holding a finger to its chubby lips.

In spite of the amusing seal, for a brief, miserable moment Gervase was sure that she had rejected him because she was occupied with another man or for some inexplicable female reason. Schooling himself to impassivity, he broke the wax and unfolded the sheet, then felt his face relax into an involuntary smile.

Across the bottom of the paper, in a flowing elegant hand, Diana had written, "
Come and be welcome
."

* * *

Diana had been preparing to retire when the message came from St. Aubyn. She felt a burst of gladness that he was coming. For three days she had wondered if she had done something to give him a disgust of her, either by her refusal to grant him exclusive rights or by the way she made love. Though he hadn't had any complaints at the time.