Persuasion (26 page)

He glanced at her, catching her staring, before he turned and shrugged the silk garment on.

She must not be distracted. “Are you going out tonight?”

He did not face her. “No.”

“I know you are going to go out to meet Marcel sooner or later,” she began, with great care.

He interrupted rudely. “I am not discussing this with you.”

He had not gone out last night, or the night before. Had he met Marcel during the day, then? If that were the case, she would be relieved. Did she dare ask?

And it crossed her mind that if she had been spying on him as Warlock had asked, she would know the answers to her questions. She would also know that the danger they were in hadn’t changed; that there wasn’t a new threat. On the other hand, if he had yet to meet Marcel, anything could happen at that rendezvous.

“Would you tell me if we were in any new danger?” she finally asked.

He slowly turned to look at her, his expression hard to read. He finally said, “We are not in any more danger, not that I know of. I hate this, Amelia. I hate that you could be in danger now, too!”

“I know you do. Simon, this is not your fault!”

“It is entirely my fault. But you should know that I am very careful, Amelia, to cover my trail,” he said harshly. “I have no intention of leading anyone back to this house. I have been very careful, for some time, to stay one step ahead of all my masters.”

He meant to outwit Warlock as well as the Jacobins, she thought with more dread. “I really don’t care about myself. It is the children I am thinking of.”

“I realize that. However, I care about you as I do the children, and that is why I am playing this game so slowly and so carefully.”

He was playing “slowly.” The word felt odd. It was a statement Warlock would certainly be interested in. “Even if the children were in Cornwall, if you were ever discovered, Simon, they would still be in danger.”

He grimaced and did not answer, which was answer enough.

She blurted, “Do you trust my uncle?”

His glance was razor sharp. “That is a loaded question, I think.”

“Do you?”

He did not approach, keeping to the other side of the bedroom. “Sometimes I do—without a doubt. At other times, no, I do not.”

Aware of what she was doing, she felt terrible—guilty and treacherous, at once. “But he is a patriot, Simon. We are all on the same side.”

He stared.

She got out of the bed, taking a sheet with her, which she kept wrapped around her. His gaze slammed over her. She approached. “We are all on the same side, aren’t we?” she whispered.

“Is this an interrogation?”

Her heart thundered. “No. Why don’t you trust him? Because for some reason, I don’t trust him entirely, either.”

He stared at the full curve of her breast, then lifted his eyes. “He has one overriding ambition—winning the war.”

“But you share that ambition.”

He seized her hand, as she held the sheet to her chest. “My greatest ambition is keeping my sons safe.”

He tugged at her hand. She released the sheet and he watched it fall. Then his gaze locked with hers. “Are you spying on me now? Did Warlock put you up to this?” He was cold.

She somehow shook her head no. But she had just learned the answer to both Lucas’s and Warlock’s questions. Winning the war was not Simon’s first ambition; keeping his children safe was.

Which meant that he would do anything to protect them—and she was glad!

“Answer me, Amelia,” he said harshly, his grasp on her wrist tightening.

“I would never spy on you,” she whispered. And it was a lie—because she had just done that—and they both knew it.

His eyes were blazing. She thought he was going to release her and walk away. But he jerked her close, anchoring her against his body, kissing her hard.

* * *

T
HE
WEATHER
COULDN
’
T
HAVE
BEEN
more perfect, Simon thought. The downpour was torrential, the night cloudy and dark, making it almost impossible to see. He was hurrying down an alleyway behind the cobbler’s shop on Darby Lane, heavily disguised, his wig bright red, his skin covered with asbestos. Because the weather was so inclement, he wore a hooded cloak.

But he was filled with tension. He was about to meet Marcel, who might very well recognize him. And he had the oddest sensation that he was being watched when he had left the house. However, he had been careful crossing town, and he knew he hadn’t been followed.

At the end of the alley, he saw two men, also in hooded cloaks, standing beneath the overhanging roof of the adjacent building, out of the rain.

His heart thundered. There had been no way to continue avoiding a meeting with Marcel. Simon had sent intelligence twice the week before by courier, but Marcel had demanded they meet in person. So he had finally agreed to the rendezvous, but he had insisted it be after dark and outside, in an unlit alley. He hadn’t known it would rain. God was surely on his side tonight.

But that did not reduce his fear.

As he led his sodden horse down the alley, images flashed in his mind—Amelia as she writhed in ecstasy beneath him, Amelia as she read a story to the boys, Amelia smiling in the entryway as the boys raced in to greet her, Amelia holding Lucille and feeding her from a bottle. His heart ached now. His boys adored her, as did Lucille. He adored her.

But the war had tainted their love.... She was jumping through Warlock’s hoops now.

He was trying not to feel betrayed. No one knew better than he how manipulative and powerful Warlock was.

“Finally,” an Englishman said, stepping to the edge of the invisible line between his shelter and the pouring rain. “We have been waiting, Jourdan.”

Simon shoved his personal feelings aside. The Englishman’s hood had fallen back, revealing vaguely familiar features: curly, dark blond hair, pale skin, blue eyes. Simon tensed. He was certain he had met this man, once upon a time.

He halted before the overhang, remaining in the rain, his hood covering his forehead and the sides of his face, his collar up and concealing his jaw and chin. “It was hell, getting across town,” he said, speaking with a French accent.

“You have been avoiding us,” the blond gentleman said, his eyes flashing. “Not that I blame you.”

No attack could have been as clear, but Simon merely smiled. “I dance to no one’s tune, except for my own, and when we meet, as now, it is on my terms. But I do apologize for keeping you waiting in the rain. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“Treyton,” he said, “Tom Treyton.”

Simon felt his heart cease beating, before it quickly resumed its pace.

Tom Treyton was smiling, coldly—belligerently. “How is your dear cousin, Jourdan? The cousin who was to welcome you with open arms into his home?”

Simon regained his composure. “St. Just recently lost his wife. I did not feel it proper to intrude upon a household in mourning, although I called upon him to tender my condolences. He was very civil.” Had Treyton been watching Lambert Hall?

Treyton seemed skeptical, one dark brow slashing upward. “Surely you met on some common ground? After all, you are cousins, and while he has lost his wife, you have lost your parents, your brothers and sisters and your French cousins.”

Simon instinctively did not like this tangent, as he was not sure where Treyton meant to lead. “I did not wish to burden him with my own losses,” he said, referring to the massacre of the entire Jourdan family in Lyons.

“Of course not. Hmm, I just realized he is your only remaining family.”

Simon tensed, wondering what Treyton was driving at. But the man standing behind Tom stepped forward. He was tall and thin, with very white skin and shockingly pale blue eyes. Edmund Duke’s gaze locked with Simon’s.

Simon’s tension escalated. He was there to meet Marcel, whom he had assumed was Duke. Very carefully, Simon inclined his head, breaking eye contact. “Bonjour, Marcel.”

“We meet at last,” the French spy said, in perfect English. Duke was certainly facing him now, but he did not seem to recognize Simon.

Simon looked up.

Duke’s eyes flashed with rage. “Two days ago,” he said, “Coburg took Tourconing.”

That had been on May 17, Simon thought uneasily. He had heard of the news yesterday. “He was driven back to Tournai,” he said.

“Coburg had sixty thousand troops!” he exclaimed.

Simon stared in dismay, with one coherent thought—Warlock had played him. Warlock had insisted that the Allies would only field forty thousand men. Damn him!

But he remained calm and contained. He said flatly, “Then my sources were wrong.”

“Yes, your sources were wrong, and you have hardly proved your value to us—or your loyalty,” Duke said coldly. “Who gave you the information, Jourdan?”

“My cousin, of course.”

“Ah, so he does not trust you, either.”

“No one builds Rome in a day,” he said, thinking of Amelia. “I cannot befriend St. Just overnight, even if we are cousins. And we do not know that he gave me misinformation. He may have believed that his facts were correct.”

Duke studied him. Simon flinched but did not look away. “If you are suspect, if they are using you to play us, then you have no value to me, to Lafleur, to France.”

“I am not under suspicion. I have barely arrived in town. I have yet to establish the network I need in order to give you the kind of information that will help you to win the war.”

“St. Just is friends with Sebastian Warlock and Dominic Paget. He moves in Tory circles. Get into them, Jourdan, and give us what we want—before General Pichegru attacks the Allies.”

He kept an impassive expression. “I will do my best.”

Duke made a harsh sound. “You do not want me to tell Lafleur that you are entirely useless.”

Inwardly, he recoiled. “I need time.”

“You do not have time. Pichegru will attack Tournai in days.” Duke added suddenly, his eyes burning, “I have heard that one cell remains vacant at La Prison de la Luxembourg. It is Number 403.”

Simon froze. 403 had been his cell.

And suddenly the alleyway reeked of blood. Suddenly he could hear the crowds screaming,
“À la guillotine!”

Thump.

He blinked and realized that he was sweating as he stood there in the cold rain, and that Duke had strode away. He watched Duke mount his hack and trot past them and out of the alleyway, not bothering to look his way another time. Slowly, with dread, he faced Treyton. No threat could have been as clear, he thought.

Tom smiled at him. “You do not want to become useless to us, Jourdan, and you may trust me on that.” Treyton walked over to his horse, untied the reins and led it forward into the downpour. He mounted and paused beside Simon. “Give my regards to St. Just—and to his lovely children.”

“Leave my cousin and his children out of this,” he heard himself say harshly.

“Hmm, it is as I thought—they are your only family now and you are taken with them.” Tom saluted him and broke into a gallop.

Simon watched him ride out of the alley, in growing horror.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A
MELIA
SMILED
DOWN
AT
L
UCILLE
,
who lay in her cradle, beaming happily back at her. She reached down and the baby grabbed her finger and gurgled. Love swelled within her breast.

But it did not vanquish the anguish that resided there.

Somehow, she kept smiling at Lucille, as tears filled her eyes. Simon had gone out last night, directly after supper. It had been raining torrentially, and no one in their right mind would go out in such weather. But he hadn’t had a choice and she knew it.

She had caught him on the stairs, and his face had been stark-white, chalked with asbestos. His lips had been rouged. He had already donned a cloak, but the hood had been carelessly pulled up, and she had seen his crimson wig.

She had begged him not to go.

He had refused to consider her plea. Instead, he had told her not to wait up, and he had continued down the stairs. She had remained frozen in fear on the steps. The front door hadn’t slammed, indicating that he had gone out a terrace door. She had finally sunk down on one of the steps, hugging herself and crying.

And he had not come to her bed last night.

Since their affair had begun, he made love to her every night, staying with her until dawn. He was obviously so very angry with her; he had been immersed in his newspaper during breakfast and hadn’t glanced up at her once.

“At least he is safe,” she whispered to Lucille. She wondered if she should try to explain that she hadn’t spied on him. She hadn’t relayed a single word he had said to Warlock. She wasn’t sure that would make a difference; she had been manipulating him to discover where his loyalties actually lay.

“Miss Greystone!” Mrs. Murdock cried.

Amelia whirled as the nurse came rushing into the nursery. “What is it?” she asked, alarmed by Mrs. Murdock’s expression.

“Mr. Southland is here!”

Amelia felt her heart lurch so terribly that for one moment she could not breathe. “It’s not even eleven o’clock.” She could barely think straight. Southland had come for Lucille. “Is he taking her?”

“I don’t know. His lordship has taken him into the library, and he has closed the doors.”

“Oh, God,” Amelia cried. Her heart continued to pound. She had the urge to take the baby and run away. In that moment, she knew she loved Lucille as if she were her own child.

What was she going to do? She stared at Mrs. Murdock. “How did he seem? What does he look like?”

“He seemed anxious, Miss Greystone. He is a big, handsome fellow.”

Amelia looked at Lucille, who continued to gurgle happily, staring up at the revolving coasters hanging above the crib. Southland was her father; he had every right to take her, care for her and love her. It simply hurt so much. “His lordship did not instruct you to bring Lucille down?”

“No, he did not. Oh, I am going to miss her so!” Tears filled the governess’s eyes.

Amelia promptly picked up Lucille and held her close. She still couldn’t breathe properly. She loved her so. But she had to do what was right. Southland deserved the opportunity to claim his child. “Can you accompany me downstairs?” She heard how hoarse her own tone was.

They went downstairs slowly, Amelia filled with dread and holding the baby tightly. In the front hall, she gave Lucille to Mrs. Murdock, afraid she might never hold her again. “Take her for a moment. I wish to meet Southland. Why don’t you wait in the pink room?”

Mrs. Murdock nodded and walked to the salon. Amelia watched her and the baby for a long moment, struggling for composure. Then, inhaling, she strode into the east wing and knocked firmly on the library door.

“Come in,” Simon called.

She stepped inside and knew that Simon had been expecting her. He was seated at his desk, but he arose, his expression utterly impassive. Southland had been seated in a chair before the desk, his back to the door. He also stood, turning.

“Mr. Southland, this is my housekeeper, Miss Greystone. She has taken a personal interest in Lucille,” Simon said, a question in his eyes.

She met his gaze, somehow sending him a wan smile. But he knew how she felt about the baby; he knew she was so reluctant to give her up. Then she smiled brightly at Lucille’s father. “Good morning, sir.”

“As I was explaining to his lordship, I cannot thank him—and you—enough for all you have done,” Southland said.

Amelia studied him now. He was a tall man in a light brown wig, wearing a green jacket that matched his eyes. She could imagine that he was a pleasant fellow and he was certainly a gentleman. But his gaze was filled with worry, and he did not smile now.

“Lucille has been a welcome addition to this household,” Amelia said roughly. “We all love her very much.”

From the corner of her eyes, she noticed that Simon did not move. His expression was impossible to read. She added pointedly, “We have been expecting you for some time.” She wanted to know why it had taken him a good six weeks to come and see his child.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his pale breeches. “I would have come sooner, but I was traveling...and I could not decide what to do.”

Simon stepped out from behind his desk and said smoothly, “Southland was just telling me that he did not know about the child until he received my letter.”

Southland flushed.

Simon added, “Apparently the affair ended in the fall.”

His color rising, Southland looked as if he wished to escape the library—as if he wished to escape Simon. But of course he did. He had cuckolded the Earl of St. Just.

“We have a great deal in common, then—as I did not know about the child until recently, either.” Simon’s smile was cold and it came and went.

Southland faced him. “I am so very sorry, my lord, that I have put you in this position!”

“I told you, Lady Grenville had my permission to have her affairs.” He shrugged.

Amelia looked between them with growing anger. She did not care for any rivalry that might exist between both men. But she could comprehend why it had taken Southland so long to call. He must have dreaded facing Simon. “What about the baby? What about Lucille and her future?”

Southland faced her, still flushed. “I would like to see her,” he said. “If I may?” He glanced nervously at Simon.

So did Amelia. She expected Southland to state that he had come to claim his daughter, but it wasn’t clear if that was the case. They had to know what Southland intended. But Simon was silent, not asking any questions of Southland.

He glanced at her. Her heart sank as their gazes met. Silently she tried to tell him that she did not want Lucille to go. He looked away. “Of course you may hold Lucille. She is your child.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“I will get her,” Amelia said, quite ill now. She hurried from the room, and in the pink-and-white salon, she approached Mrs. Murdock.

“What is happening?” the governess cried, handing her the baby. Lucille had fallen asleep.

“I don’t know. He is very young, and he seems more interested in placating Grenville for having had an affair with his wife than he does in meeting Lucille!” Amelia rocked her, hushing her, as her lids drifted a bit. Dread and dismay were making her sick. Her heart already felt broken.

Mrs. Murdock touched her arm gently. “No wonder he didn’t come till now—he must have been deathly afraid of his lordship!”

Amelia smiled grimly and left the salon. She understood why Southland had procrastinated, but if he was capable of cuckolding Grenville, then surely he could face him and claim his daughter! There was no excuse for such procrastination.

Both men were standing in the library, waiting for her, Simon with his hands on his hips. Southland was pale and he appeared nervous.

Amelia marched over to Southland. “She is asleep.” She refrained from offering his daughter to him to hold.

His eyes widened. “She is such a little angel!” he exclaimed. And finally, he smiled.

Amelia’s heart sank. It was as she had thought. Southland had taken one look at his daughter and fallen completely in love. “Here,” she whispered, choking. She meant to give him his daughter to hold.

He backed away, alarmed. “Maybe it is best if I don’t hold her!”

Amelia blinked through her tears at him. “Why not?” She inhaled. “Mr. Southland. I must be direct. Aren’t you here to take her home with you?”

“I don’t know!” he cried, his gaze moist. “I just don’t know! How can I take her home? I am a bachelor of twenty-two. I live alone, with a single manservant. I am not ready to have a family. I am not even ready to wed!”

Amelia began to have hope. Incredulously, she glanced at Simon. Their gazes met, his eyes flickering as they did.

Southland added, near tears, “Of course, my parents could take her. They have an entire staff. But I haven’t even told them about her. Miss Greystone, I simply don’t know what to do. I am torn—I am afraid!”

Amelia looked at Simon. “Please,” she said.

He came forward decisively then. “She is welcome to remain here, Southland.”

Southland faced him, his eyes wide with some disbelief. “You would keep her?”

“She is welcome to remain here,” Simon repeated flatly. “I would not turn my wife’s bastard away—God rest her departed soul. But if you walk away now, you will not be invited back. She either goes with you or she stays here—as a Grenville.”

Amelia’s heart soared. This was why she loved and admired Simon so—he was so noble and so generous—he was so kind!

Southland nodded, seeming torn between relief and despair. “I believe that it is best that she stays with you, my lord, because you can give her the life I cannot.” He faced Amelia. “It is better if I don’t hold her. It is better if she doesn’t awaken—if she doesn’t see me.”

Amelia remained in disbelief. They were going to keep Lucille.

“You should go,” Simon said to Southland. He came to stand closely beside Amelia, as if feeling protective of her and the child.

“Yes, I should.” He hesitated, staring at Lucille.

Amelia hugged her, afraid he was going to change his mind. But then he smiled grimly, moisture in his eyes, and dashed from the room.

Amelia sagged, Lucille in her arms.

Simon steadied her, grasping her elbow. “He would be disastrous as a father. He is much too young, with no means to care for his child—and no real interest in doing so.”

“Simon, thank you,” Amelia cried.

And his mask slipped away. Warmth and concern filled his eyes. “I know how much you love her, Amelia.”

She began to cry. “And I love you, Simon, so much.”

His face hardened. “But you questioned my loyalties.”

“Yes, I did. But you would not act any differently than I would, if it came to making a choice that involved saving the children.”

“You did not let me finish. You were right to question my loyalties. I would betray my country if I had to.” He slid his arm around her. “You know me too well.... Yet you love me anyway.”

“I love you because of all I know!”

“I know you mean that now. But I pray that the day doesn’t come when you feel very differently.”

“I will never feel differently,” she whispered, loving him so much that it hurt. “Simon, I haven’t said anything to Warlock.”

He was grave. “If there is something he wants you to tell him, you will do so, sooner or later, whether you wish to or not.”

“I will never betray you.” She was final.

“No, you wouldn’t—not knowingly.” He put his arm around her and kissed her cheek, then nuzzled her jaw. “I missed you last night.”

Desire fisted. Love swelled. “I missed you, too.”

And Lucille yawned and began to awaken.

* * *

A
MELIA
REMOVED
HER
APRON
,
standing in the kitchen by the center island, surveying a perfectly roasted pork loin. “That looks wonderful, Cook,” she said, meaning it. “You have truly outdone yourself.”

The chef beamed, thanking her and covering the sterling platter with a silver cover. Amelia smiled at Jane and Maggie, her spirits high. Ever since Southland had left that morning, leaving Lucille behind, she had felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Just then, life felt almost perfect—she almost felt that they had become one big, happy family.

Simon had made it clear that he meant to raise Lucille as his own child. She had never been as relieved or more grateful. The moment Southland had left, Lucille had been returned to the nursery, and she and Simon had made love with shocking urgency and passion on the library desk. Amelia had never loved him more and she had told him so—repeatedly. He had made love to her as if he loved her in return—and she knew he did. He had held her afterward as if he was afraid she was a ghost or an illusion that would disappear at any moment.

“I am happy you are happy,” he had said.

Love and joy churned within her chest. Tonight, after supper, she would read to the boys as she routinely did. But this evening, she meant to include Simon—she would insist that he join them. She could imagine him seated in the chair adjacent to her own, before the fire, as she read to the boys in their beds. She would even bring Lucille’s basinet into the boys’ room so she could share in the experience. And once the boys and Lucille were all safely asleep, she would go to her own bedchamber and await Simon....

And she wondered if the day would ever come where they would be a real family. All Simon had to do was adopt Lucille. All he had to do was make her his wife.

Some of the pleasure faded. Simon had yet to tell her that he loved her. On the other hand, his actions spoke volumes. But he hadn’t ever mentioned the future, or shown any interest in marrying again. And that worried her! On the other hand, he was not in any position to ask anyone to be his wife.

A pan rattled, jerking her out of her fanciful musing. She glanced at her pocket watch. Simon had been out all afternoon and he had yet to return. Supper would be served at seven o’clock, as always, and it was a quarter to the hour. He hadn’t sent word that he would be late, so she expected him at any moment.