My Lady Rogue (A Nelson's Tea Novella Book 2) (4 page)

“Having thus detailed the proceedings of the fleet on this occasion, I beg to congratulate their Lordships on a victory, which, I hope will add a ray to the glory of his Majesty’s Crown, and be attended with public benefit to our country. I am, C. Collingwood.”

Devastated, he crinkled the parchment in his hands. The sound faded in the resulting silence. Gillian’s warmth only slightly calmed him as she peeled the missive from his fingers, laid it on the table, then took both of his hands in hers.

“I cannot believe it. I won’t.” He shook his head, dazed, unwilling to accept the inevitability of what he’d always known could and would happen to his commander — to the operation they’d worked so tirelessly to produce. “If Nelson is dead—”

“There can be no Nelson’s Tea,” Garrick finished for him bitterly.

Simon’s shoulders sagged with defeat. This was it. Fouché had won. Everything they’d worked hard for was
gone
.

“It’s over,” he said, staring off into the distance, not really seeing anything, feeling numb to his bones.

Gillian straightened her shoulders and raised her chin defiantly. “You are wrong.”

“Wrong?” He blinked. Had he heard her correctly? With strength he didn’t know he possessed, he lifted his gaze to hers. He longed to believe that this woman who’d given him reason to hope they might one day be together, could also heal the rift Nelson’s loss would bring to England — to Nelson’s Tea.

“Admiral Nelson,” she said, pacing the room, “was the foundation to our cause. His name alone gave us the ability to work on a more worldly scale. His influence helped us worm our way into the underbelly of society.” She came to a stop before him. “But the genius behind Nelson’s Tea has always been you, Simon. You are the man who held our heads above water.”

“No,” he struggled to say, shaking his head negatively. “That was all Lord Nelson’s doing.”

The fog lifted, and Simon suddenly saw the honey-brown liquid glinting in a glass on the table. He reached for the brandy as if through a haze, downing its contents. He threw the empty tumbler in the corner. “Bloody hell, we are done. Done!”

The liquor did its worst, but the words he’d just uttered singed his throat with blistering heat. He shook his head to clear it. Labored to understand the absurdity of Collingwood’s dispatch. Napoleon was still launching attacks against England. Fouché and Barére were on the prowl. The continued threat to England’s security was very real. It didn’t matter if Nelson’s armada won at Trafalgar. Nelson’s leadership was the one thing they couldn’t stand to lose. Until Napoleon was undermined, captured, or killed, England still needed men like Simon — Nelson’s Tea.

Would Nelson’s death end the Admiralty’s support? Would Prinny refuse to finance them while Wickham depended on their intelligence efforts?

Garrick returned to Gillian’s side, fiery determination radiating from his lone eye. “It wasn’t Nelson who got me out of Delgado’s hands, Simon. It was
you
!”

“Rubbish!” Simon shouted. “You and I both know Nelson negotiated your release.”

Garrick slammed his fist on the table, causing the dishes to rattle and flip over. “
You
were the one who sent Henry to my rescue. If Percy and Constance hadn’t given Henry the best care doctor’s could provide, he would have lost his leg. If you hadn’t vouched for Henry after Burton’s death, and you hadn’t agreed to convince Nelson to give Henry another chance at serving his country, Henry wouldn’t have found my sister and guided my men to arrange my cartel. I know just as surely as I’m alive, that I’m in England, I’m safe and whole because you believed in me, in Henry, in keeping Nelson’s Tea together.”

“Have you forgotten you are not whole?”

“Simon!” Gillian shouted in outrage.

Garrick’s nostrils flared and fury radiated from his face, but he didn’t turn away. “No. I. Am. Not,” he said, the words fighting their way through his teeth. “But I am alive. And devil damn me, I have you to thank for it.”

Their gazes locked in a battle of wills. Simon wouldn’t back down. He had purposefully lashed out at Garrick in an attempt to prove his inability to continue Nelson’s Tea without the admiral’s direction.

“Nothing you say will change that truth, Simon.”

He waved off Garrick’s praise as heat inched up his neck. Certainly his participation in Garrick’s rescue, in the clandestine group had not been a small thing, though he wished he could have been more active in the field. But no matter what anyone said, he’d made the hard choices no one else would make, taken whatever steps necessary to ensure the job was done. There was no need to dwell on it.

“Truth?” He laughed at the irony.

Tears in her eyes, Gillian said, “What you have done for Percy, Henry and Garrick — for me — goes beyond duty.”

She was right about one thing. Nelson hadn’t wanted to take Guffald back in to the navy after his stint as a double agent. What Nelson hadn’t known at the time was that Henry’s fixation on Simon’s niece, Constance, had initially been a ruse to expose Burton and Captain Frink. Henry’s attraction to Constance had simply hastened their plans. In the end, Henry had saved Constance’s life and the life of her unborn child, earning Simon’s eternal gratitude.

Family bonds were the hardest to break. Those binding them to Nelson’s Tea were not. They would all discover the truth soon enough.

Gillian broke the awkward silence. “If it wasn’t for you, Simon, none of us would be here.”

Visions of Gillian alone and disconsolate flashed before his eyes. “Anyone would have done the same. Henry had been undercover too long. I fear his task wore on him more than I’d originally thought it would.”

“No more so than on Percy,” Garrick offered. “The damned man was like a dog on a fox’s trail.”

Gillian sprang to life. “Whatever you believe, Percy and Henry have been driven by the same sense of duty that fuels all of us. Our connection would be better served helping us get through these dark times now.”

She was right, of course. Gillian’s keen wisdom had never failed him.

He looked Garrick directly in the eye. “If you are so damned insistent on reminding me of my duty, where is Henry now?”

“He’s at Pendrim.”

Misery loved company. He glared at Garrick. “He knows, then?”

“Aye, he knows.”

Gillian’s voice quivered slightly. “Was he at Trafalgar, Garrick?”

Garrick shook his head. “No. But he followed the
Pickle
in when the ship wouldn’t hail his signal flags in its bid to make landfall. Adele is with him.”

“Your sister is an amazing woman,” Gillian added, turning to look down at Simon. “A woman who knows what she wants and goes after it, come what may.”

Gillian rested her hand on Simon’s shoulder. Was she trying to tell him that Nelson’s death didn’t change a thing between them? She was wrong, so very wrong. Nelson’s demise changed everything.

“We cannot think of ourselves. We must discuss the survival of Nelson’s Tea.”

“How do you propose we do that?” he asked.

Garrick’s crooked grin promised assistance, bolstering his confidence. Simon rose, locked his hands behind his back, and paced the room. Thoughts percolated in his head.

“The men will have to be called in. Melville will have to be contacted immediately.”

Once word leaked that Nelson was dead, the entire country would go into mourning. The admiral had been the first hero of the age to have gleaned such a following. And there was no better time to reorganize than when the enemy slept on a full stomach.

“No rest for the weary, eh?” Garrick bemoaned, straightening his jacket lapels as he headed for the door.

Gillian grabbed Simon’s hand. “Garrick hasn’t slept in two days.”

He whirled on Garrick. “Two days?”

Light from the window beamed on Garrick’s distorted features. He closed his eye, recoiling with displeasure.

“I knew something was amiss when I saw John Lapenotiere getting fresh horses at an Inn in Exeter. When I questioned him about the odd occurrence, he said he was under strict orders to travel to London as fast as possible. He was past irritated that a gale had caught the
Pickle
off Cape Finisterre and cost him valuable time. I inquired why he was so determined to travel by hired post-chaise. He said time was of the essence. With so delicate a matter unfolding before me, I decided to escort John to London. The 271 mile journey forced us to stop and change horses fourteen more times in order to make it to the Admiralty in thirty-seven hours.”

“Thirty-seven hours?”

Garrick nodded.

“And who else, pray tell, is receiving this dispatch?”

“The First Secretary of the Admiralty, Mr. Marsden, First Lord of the Admiralty, Lord Barham, The Prime Minister, William Pitt, and King George.”

Bells tolled, cannon fire rumbled through the air, escalating the tension.

“The Tower!” Gillian exclaimed, rushing to the window. She turned back and stared at him, her eyes wide with hysteria. “The news will be everywhere soon.”

“We must notify the men,” Garrick said, his baritone dropping an octave. “The streets will be almost impassable within hours.”

Simon nodded, feeling the weight of sixteen lives on his shoulders. “We haven’t a moment to lose. Before the Admiralty moves in to stop us, I want everyone assembled here.”

“Do you really think they will try?” Garrick’s voice hinted at irritation.

“Victory, however small, tends to turn a rebellious head. To answer your question, Garrick, yes. I believe there are those in the House of Commons who would see our blunt put to what they believe termed ‘better use.’”

Gillian swept toward him as if on air, her unequaled elegance likened to that of an angel. Oh, how he needed angelic intervention now.

“What do you want me to do?”

Her offer pleased him, but what could she do?

He took her hand in his. “Gather the men,” he said, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders as he regarded Garrick in the doorway. “Send dispatchers to every known Nelson’s Tea member’s location.”

“Guffald and his crew will certainly be on the way since he has probably come into contact with Sykes by now,” Garrick said.

Garrick would need more immediate assistance. “Then notify Percy. Section off the list. Split the tasks. Get everyone to convene here in two days time.”

Garrick nodded and turned to leave. Goodayle’s excellent timing once more proved him efficient. He appeared at the door with Garrick’s muddy cloak, holding it away from his uniform as if it was infectious.

“Two days?”

Gillian dropped Simon’s hand as though she’d been stung. She moved to the doorway, snatched Garrick’s cloak from Goodayle, and draped it over Garrick’s shoulder. Garrick leaned forward, touched his forehead to hers, and mumbled something unintelligible.

Simon grimaced, swallowing back the angry retort threatening to burst from his lips, and instead ordered, “That will be all.”

Garrick pulled back and gave Simon a nod. “Two days.”

“Be careful, Garrick. Godspeed,” Gillian said, following him out into the hallway.

Two days. In five seconds his world had fallen apart. It would take more than forty-eight hours to salvage the lives of sixteen men and longer to heal the gulf widening between Gillian and him.

For thee shall spotless Honour grieve,

And cypress midst his laurels weave,

In the hour of victory!

On thee shall grateful Memory dwell

And ages yet unborn shall tell

How NELSON fought, how NELSON fell,

In the hour of victory!

~Epicedium, On the Death of Lord Nelson, S.B. The Gentleman’s Magazine 1805.13

“Do you really
think this will be the last time we are all gathered together?” Gillian moved into Simon’s welcoming embrace, swallowing back a heart wrenching sob.

Ten minutes had passed since Garrick had left the townhouse. Ten long minutes of watching Simon’s brows furrow ever tighter, deepening until the aristocratic lines of his handsome face were grossly disfigured. Gillian couldn’t bear the ugly transformation, for his expression only hinted at the war building inside him. His steadfast code of morality and honor had consistently succeeded in suppressing his own needs and desires. What of sorrow? Would the news of Nelson’s death prove a more impenetrable shield? Could she shore up this wounded man’s agony? And more importantly, how could she if she tried?

In the past, their separations had been purely physical, an exhausting distance no preoccupation could eliminate. Today, her new enemy held greater influence on Simon’s emotions than marriage vows and honor. And she knew well enough the folly of ignoring this new foe. She’d seen what despair had done to Garrick.

She ran her fingers over Simon’s shoulders, luxuriating in the feel of the exquisite lines of his tailored morning coat. They were as close as they could possibly be, and yet the distance had never been further. Too much stood between them, Lady Danbury’s and Nelson’s deaths, the fate of Nelson’s Tea, their unspoken feelings. Did he feel it too? She’d long dreamed of sharing a deeper intimacy with this man who haunted her days and nights, absorbing his scent of sandalwood and spice, taking all of him, holding nothing back. Now she suppressed a shiver in the resounding quiet. Her long wait for Simon had come to an end at last, hadn’t it? But at what cost?

Her heart cried out with longing. He was no longer married. He could be hers, if not for the sorrowful voices haunting their lives or the ones they heard pulsating throughout the city.

Nelson is dead! Nelson is dead!

Simon inhaled deeply, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “We cannot fail. Our business is not only risky, it relies solely on His Majesty’s grace. With Nelson’s assistance, leadership, and guidance, we were assured good measure. No longer.”

She hesitated to ask why. “And now?”

Surely King George respected Simon enough to allow him to continue Nelson’s Tea after he and Lucien had saved the king’s life at Drury Lane?

His winded sigh heightened her doubts. “I’m not as certain as I once was. Without Nelson at the helm, Nelson’s Tea’s motivation is gone. Once morale is gone—”

“Not all gone,” she said, clinging to him as if her life depended on it. And it did. Simon was everything to her. He was her night and day, her moral compass. He was the most intelligent man she’d ever met. His skill at disguise, his mastery of language, culture, and stratagem far outweighed any nobles servicing England in the House of Lords or the Admiralty Board.

He stepped back, only slightly, and lifted her chin, tilting her face up to his. Her gaze traveled from the lapels of his coat to his starched cravat, upper neck, and chin, finally settling on his generous sensual mouth. She held her breath as hundreds of butterflies fluttered to break free from her chest and waited for him to speak as if her very life depended on his next words.

“You and I are not of this world, are we?”

She closed her eyes absorbing his warmth like she’d been deprived of the noonday sun. “I am part of any world you reside in, Simon. I would follow you anywhere.”

When he said nothing, she opened her eyes, suppressing the chill that swept over her. Why wouldn’t he let go and just be? She leaned toward him, absorbing the power emanating from his body.

Dark hair draped over his forehead as he glanced down at her. Heaven help her, she was a selfish woman. She trembled with desire, wanting his mouth on hers, longing to know how he tasted. She wanted assurances, his promise that their dreams of being together hadn’t been crushed. It was wrong to desire these things, so very wrong. It was too soon. Simon’s wife had just been buried. The admiral had fallen.

Her heart thrummed in her chest like a child expectantly waiting for something she could never have. But she wasn’t a child, and Simon’s bemused expression, a mixture of torment and longing, made her go weak in the knees. A smoldering fire ignited in his eyes. Lured closer, she pressed against him.

“I don’t deserve you.” His voice sent shivers down her spine.

“If not me, then who?” She watched a frown play with his lips as closely as an ornithologist inspecting an evolving species.

“You make light of my words though they are weighted by anvils.”

She denied it. “No, my lord.”

“How desirable you are, even in the midst of death and emotions boiling to the surface.”

“It’s normal to grieve, Simon.” She pulled his face toward hers. “I know. Let
me
help
you
.”

His hands moved from her waist to tightly grip her shoulders, fingers biting into her flesh. He fought his desire. She understood the tide of shame and guilt that had plagued him for so long. She’d endured the same feelings when Lucien had been ambushed and killed by Fouché’s henchmen. She’d felt the same way when Simon had cornered her in a carriage after that fateful night at the opera. If he hadn’t, she didn’t know where she would be now. Seeing him again, knowing it would be the last time, had nearly destroyed her.

“I will not leave you,” she vowed. “No matter what you say, I will never, ever leave you.”

Her hands slid up his chest until she cupped his face with gentle fingers. “Come to me, my love. Let us weather this gale together.”

The words were hardly past her lips before he bent down to ravish them. Hot, invitingly sweet, his tongue explored hers with a savage urgency that enveloped her in unfathomable ways she couldn’t define. Simon was the storm always brewing within her, siphoning breath from her lungs like a punishing wind sweeping off the sea. She’d waited so long for his touch, the salty sweetness of his kiss. The energizing taste of him, feel of him. She ached inside with an echoing hunger. What he was doing to her gave her a sense of power she’d never known possible.

The time for her possession had surely come.

She urged him on as his hands slid luxuriously upward to cup her cheeks. He braced her to him — as if she’d ever leave. Then his touch lightened.

Not now,
she thought. Not when she’d discovered the molten heat burning, coiling in her belly. Tears streamed down her cheeks at the beautiful sensations he aroused, but she paid them no heed.

Simon was here. Hers. At. Last.

The trappings of life separating them had been forever severed. No more fear. No more inner hatred and culpability for the passion they shared. They were two people eagerly anticipating to become one but yet to be joined.

He broke away, and she clawed at his hands to bring him back.

“No,” she cried. “Please—”

~~~~

What in God’s
name was he doing?

Simon gently pushed Gillian away and stepped back. She had no idea what she was doing to him. Neither of them were saints, but if they wanted their relationship to remain a secret, the window was no place to be. He simply had to tamp down the desire coursing through his veins to the boldest part of him she had yet to discover, the very aroused organ that would bind her to him forever.

Lucifer take it!
He wanted all of Gillian, every delectable inch of her —now — here — more than he’d ever wanted anything he could remember, duty, honor, country. Nevertheless, he could ill afford to lose himself.

Frustrated, he ran his hands through his hair. He was a cad to think of his own physical pleasure when England mourned the greatest man who’d ever defended her shores.

He moved away from the windows, away from Gillian and the temptation she posed to his soul.

Loving Gillian threatened to undo him. Loving her made him forget how deadly and formidable one choice could be. He wanted nothing more than to lose himself inside her. Truth be told, he wanted to grab Gillian right here, right now and carry her upstairs like a vagabond, rip off her clothes, and drive her into the bed linen like she was a common whore. But she wasn’t one of those women. And if he didn’t squelch his desires before it was too late, he’d have her splayed over the table in the dining room in a compromising position.

Bloody hell. What kind of man ravished a woman without seeing to her pleasure first? If he wasn’t careful, he’d alienate her forever.
Patience.
He wanted to be Gillian’s lover in every sense of the word. And yet the suggestion was preposterous. He’d just found out Admiral Nelson had been killed in battle. That everything he’d worked so hard for might be forfeited. What sane man would lose himself now when his men needed him? Looked to him for guidance?

England. Must. Come. First.

“Simon,” she said, startling him from his musings as she came up behind him. “I’ve watched you suffer long enough.”

He fisted his hands to keep himself from touching her. “I’m sorry. But the two of us — here — this… is wrong.”

Her plump red bow-shaped lips parted, fully engaging him. She was an elixir he was hard-pressed to resist. “I understand what you’re going through, my lord.”

“No, my lady, you don’t.” If she did, she’d run. He raked his fingers through his hair again, trying to temper his heartbeat to a regular canter. “When I’m near you, I come undone.”

She purred like a sensual feline. “Is that such a terrible thing?” Her smile tendered his heart, making the organ ache abominably more than it ever had before. Indecision coiled inside him.

Her sexual allure was almost too much to bear. She was better at seduction than he. She’d had more practice using feminine wiles in her various disguises to full effect. But she’d never used them on him.
Lucifer take it!
He’d forbidden it. Hell, he’d not yet fully recovered from the recent, all too vivid image of her embracing another man. How could he withstand visions of her seducing secrets in the throes of passion?

His gut twisted cruelly. Jealousy surged through his veins to his engorged, tormented cock. His damned heartbeat raced, refusing to cooperate. He paced the Turkish carpet then stopped at the bow window, lifting aside the heavy damask curtain to peer out at Bolton Street. His heart grieved for what had been taken from him — his commander, his inspiration. To neutralize Gillian’s seduction, his mind rallied to formulate a plan to counteract the disaster Nelson’s death left behind.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” he asked mindlessly as he listened to the bells in the distance create a haunting effigy.

She crept up behind him and laid her hand on his sleeve. “What, my lord?”

He laughed suddenly, the sound as cynical as the words he spoke. He gazed down on her. “A man’s greatest victory is found in death.”

“Victory,” she said, “is all in the mind, just like beauty tempts the eye, Simon. We are alive. Those who survived Trafalgar are alive to enjoy Nelson’s greatest triumph. We should be glad of it. Heartfelt and happy that one man’s legacy will live on long after his mortal body is gone.”

Simon stared down at her in disquiet. How could one so young, so beautiful, have the wisdom of an aged crone?

“You amaze me yet again, baroness. You shed light on the darkest regions of my heart with but a sound, a word, a look. How do you manage it for so young a person?”

A smile transformed her heart-shaped face. “We are not that far apart in age.”

Weren’t they? He felt as though he’d aged ten years since he’d read Collingwood’s dispatch. But Gillian, her hair parted down the middle and pulled back into a severe bun that enhanced her exotic brown eyes, had not aged a day. A blush crept up her fair neck during his inspection, accentuating the pink fabric that feathered and frilled from her bodice to her nape. Looking at her, he felt as if they were eras apart.

Her tantalizing fingers slid up his forearm, inching ever so slowly, higher over the muscle there, the contact rifling through him like a bolt of lightning. Contrary to the storm whirling within him, her loving expression softened, her smile deepened, and her chocolate brown eyes bore into his soul.

“I love you, Simon. Love is not a momentary emotion. True love is forever.”

“If I cannot grasp today, how will I ever find forever,” he whispered.

She smiled. “Time is of little consequence when love is within your reach, my lord.”

He forced a smile. “When I brought you here four years ago, I asked for your patience, your time and talents. So much has happened to dash your hopes and dreams. How can I ask more of you? You have waited too long, m’dear. You… have surely developed a taste for adventure I can no longer give.”
Damn my jealous hide!