A Lady's Revenge (6 page)

“Cora.”

“Yes?”

“You’re safe. I will see to it that Valère pays for what he has done.”

“No.” The word ripped from her throat. The thought of Guy facing a man like Valère, especially on her behalf, sent a surge of raw fear through her exhausted body. “You are not to get involved.”

His gaze remained steady, resolute. “Too late.”

“I mean it, Guy. The man’s a cold-blooded killer.”

He stared at her for a heart-pounding moment before saying, “We are evenly matched, then.”

Cora stilled. “What do you mean?”

His features shuttered, as if he had realized he’d said too much. Instead of explaining his statement, he asked, “Are you sure I can’t help you?”

Disappointment sharpened her tone. “Quite.”

“Rest well, Cora.”

When the door closed, she crumpled against the wall, sliding down its cold, hard surface. The welts on her feet, inflicted by Boucher’s branding iron, throbbed with fire.

She closed her eyes. The acrid aroma of burning flesh still stained her nostrils, and her throat felt as though it were lined with shards of glass.

As fatigue overtook her body and clouds rolled across the sun, taking its warmth and light, Cora prayed for a new day to arrive, one that included dainty pastries, flaring candlelight, and Guy’s strong arms wrapped around her.

She tilted her head back, reassured by the wall’s solid surface, unsurprised when her prayer remained unanswered.

***

Guy was going to be sick.

A few feet from Cora’s bedchamber, he braced his hands on the windowsill, his blunt fingernails cutting into the wood. The image of her fleeing his arms and taking up a weapon against him replayed in his mind until hot bile pushed into his throat.

My
God, she’s afraid of being touched.
He smacked the window frame with his hand, barely managing to keep the nausea at bay and his fury leashed.

If she only would have listened to him. His nails bit deeper into the wood.

Before he had left on his first mission, she had confessed her desire to find the Frenchman who had killed her parents. In his youth, he had lacked delicacy and tried to convince her to abandon such a hare-brained notion. She had ignored his pleas, as he would have hers had their roles been reversed. To complicate the situation, years of learning intelligence gathering techniques and self-defense training had fed her savage need for revenge, blinding her to the realities of war.

If only they hadn’t thought teaching Danforth’s little sister how to pick a lock or how to incapacitate a man twice her size was great fun.

In the beginning, none of them knew why Somerton was teaching them such unique skills. Only later did they learn that their mentor had tested them, followed their progress to see what talents he could mold and sharpen. Only later did they learn they had become weapons.

And Cora had become Somerton’s secret weapon.

Guy pulled in a deep breath. Valère had taken much more than her innocence. He had stolen her confidence and plunged her into a well of fear by exploiting all her vulnerabilities. She no longer viewed the world through invincible eyes.

“Are you unwell, my lord?” Dinks asked.

He straightened, startled that he had not heard the maid’s approach.

“I have been better, Dinks.”

“I’m right sorry to hear that, sir.” She stopped in front of him. “Would you like one of my special tonics to help calm your nerves? It involves a wee bit of brandy.”

He smiled. Dinks’s concoctions always included a dram of the amber liquid. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

He studied Cora’s door again. “Has Cora spoken to you about her captivity?”

The maid stood silent for a moment, a faraway look in her eyes. “No, my lord.”

He stared at the maid, measuring the veracity of her words. Even if Cora had confided in Dinks, the older woman would never disclose any information without Cora’s consent. “I suppose it’s still too early.”

“I’m not sure she will ever speak of it, my lord,” Dinks confided. “Miss Cora’s a private person and can be overly protective of those she loves.”

Guy nodded, remembering Cora’s refusal to share the details of her imprisonment yesterday morning. Truth be told, he came here today to coax more information from her.

There was a time when Cora would have shared everything with him. Over the last few years, though, their bond had frayed like the ends of a ship’s flag left too long in the sea breeze. He missed their connection and had come to her chamber in the hopes of reestablishing it. She needed someone to lean on, and he wanted to be that person.

“It’s up to us to change her mind, then,” he said, coming to a decision. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Please have a breakfast tray for two sent to her room by eight.”

Dinks sent him a gap-toothed smile. “That’s the way to slay her demons, my lord.” Dinks patted her ample hips. “Food’s always been dear to my heart.”

He winked at the audacious maid and then cast a final look toward Cora’s door. “She needs your assistance, Dinks. She’s too damn stubborn to admit it, though.”

“The little mite’s having a bad time of it this morning, is she?”

“Yes, and my clumsy efforts didn’t help matters any.”

“I’ll give her a spot of laudanum to take the edge off,” Dinks said. “She’ll fight me some, thinking she’ll become dependent on the opiate like her mum and those cowardly society ladies, but I’d as soon cut off my right hand than allow my little mite to wither away like that.” Dinks’s eyes widened. “Pardon me, sir. I should not have said that about Miss Cora’s mother.”

“Rest easy, Dinks,” Guy said. “You did not say anything that I did not already know.” Cora wasn’t the only one protective of those she loved. He thought back to an alcohol-induced conversation he’d had years ago with Danforth and knew, as Dinks knew, that Cora worried about something far more insidious than becoming one of those “cowardly society ladies.”

“You’re a true friend, Dinks. Thank you for taking such good care of her.” He bowed and turned to leave. “Don’t forget—tomorrow morning at eight.”

The maid beamed. “She’ll be ready, my lord. Don’t you worry.”

By slow degrees, the nausea abated. He would spend the rest of the day figuring out the best approach to dealing with Cora’s mental wounds. It would take skillful cunning on his part, for she would not welcome his interference. But he knew how to tiptoe around her prickly pride. Had done so for years.

As Guy descended the staircase, Somerton appeared in the doorway of his study.

“Helsford, do you have a moment?” Not waiting for an answer, Somerton turned on his heel and disappeared inside.

Guy stared at the empty space a moment before following in his mentor’s wake.

The moment Guy closed the door, Somerton said, “We must move Cora someplace safe.”

“Has there been a new development?” Guy asked.

“My sources report a great deal of activity at Valère’s chateau a few days ago. From the sounds of it, he might have been marshaling for an extended journey.”

“Can we not wait until you receive something more certain? She can barely walk.”

Somerton’s lips thinned, unaccustomed to explaining himself. “No. I can’t take the chance. He could be here even now. Rather than bringing her here, I should have sent her to a safe house the moment you landed on English soil, but I allowed my emotions to have their sway.”

“Do you really think Valère would risk crossing the Channel for her?”

“Yes.”

Guy remained focused on Cora’s lack of physical strength, ignoring his instincts. “Surely not with the contentious relationship we have with France—”

“Our lack of rapport with France did not stop you from entering the country to save Cora, did it?”

Guy canted his head to the side, eyeing his mentor. “I thought I was there to rescue our agent Raven.”

A muscle jumped in Somerton’s jaw. The Nexus leader didn’t make such greenling mistakes.

“Why do you deny Cora’s the Raven?” Guy asked.

“I denied nothing.”

“Nor did you confirm my suspicion for Danforth.” Guy could still hear Danforth’s laughter ringing in his ears after he had declared Cora the Raven.

“I don’t reveal my agents’ identities.” Somerton’s gaze turned so hard and frigid that ice crystals seemed to form around their crystalline edges. “Not to anyone.”

The muscles in Guy’s shoulders bunched into a tight knot. He knew the only reason he, Cora, and Ethan were aware of each other’s role in the organization was due to the nature of their upbringing. Had they not trained together as children, they would likely not know each provided a service to the Nexus.

Somerton said, “Shall we get back to Cora’s safety?”

Chastened but no less irritated, Guy nodded.

“With her great-aunt’s sponsorship, Cora was able to mingle with Parisian society as herself. Valère knows Cora’s true identity.”

“I know,” Guy ground out. Considering Valère’s resourcefulness, he probably knew she was the Raven. An English spy who had penetrated France’s elite and had cost Napoleon—and Valère—much.

“Good,” Somerton said. “Then you understand the situation.”

“Indeed. For the record, I agree.”

“About what?”

“That you should have put Cora in a safe house the moment she arrived.”

His mentor’s jaw visibly hardened. “The question still remains—what did Cora tell Valère?”

“Cora said she told him nothing, and I believe her.”

“As do I,” Somerton murmured. “However, Valère’s said to be quite handsome and very charming, especially when he wants something. With the amount of time they spent together—”

“Are you saying she spent intimate time in his company before the kidnapping?”

A charged pause. “Yes.”

A gale of jealous rage swept through Guy. Too late, he recalled Cora’s description of Valère’s dancing ability.

Normally, he danced with fluid passion, full of touches and innuendo, but after my return from the balcony, his movements became stiff and crushing.

Goddammit. How could he have forgotten the rumors of the Raven’s ability to seduce secrets from the enemy? Had Valère succumbed like all the others? Or had the Raven fallen prey to a more masterful predator?

“How long?” Guy nearly growled.

“A fortnight, maybe longer.”

The pressure in Guy’s head grew with each revelation. “Bloody hell.”

Somerton moved to stand behind his desk. “Cora might not have revealed British secrets, but it’s possible she inadvertently revealed some of her own.”

Guy’s teeth clamped together so hard his jaw popped. “In which case, Valère might know about you.”

“Precisely. And her brother.”

Which meant none of their holdings would provide a safe harbor for Cora.

“It’s doubtful he knows about me,” Guy said without hesitation. “When my aunt Phoebe passed away last fall, she left me a small estate in the country. Few know of it. Perhaps now would be a good time to air out the place.”

Somerton tapped his fingertips on his desk, considering Guy’s offer. “It could be several weeks before we rout Valère.”

“I understand.” Guy straightened his shoulders. “She’ll be safe with me.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Somerton paced over to the window. After a moment, he faced Guy again. “With Cora protected, I could devote my attention to finding Valère and removing the threat—before he finds her.”

Guy’s disappointment in Somerton’s decisions didn’t stop him from warming under his mentor’s praise. Somerton had never been an emotionally demonstrative man, but neither was he impossible to please. Quite unlike Guy’s father.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Take Cora’s servants with you,” Somerton instructed. “They’ll help keep an eye on things and are useful intermediaries for communication purposes.”

“Very well. I can be ready to depart for the country as early as tomorrow afternoon. I’ve arranged to breakfast with Cora in the morning.

“I will alert her servants,” Somerton said, returning to his desk. He shuffled papers around, indicating their meeting had come to an end. “All will be in readiness for your departure.”

Guy hesitated.

His mentor glanced up. “Something wrong?”

“I seek only one favor for my intervention.”

Somerton eyed him. “Indeed.”

“Did the message I deciphered about the British ships aid in your decision to send Cora to Valère?”

The slight lowering of his mentor’s eyelids sent Guy’s heart crashing into his stomach.

Somerton folded his hands on his desk. “As I mentioned in the library, I assigned Cora to the task of exposing a double spy. Having her keep an ear to the ground for intelligence on the ships, as well, only made sense.”

The bile he had wrestled into submission earlier reemerged. He knew better than to challenge Somerton’s assertions; the man kept information more securely than any cast-iron safe.

“I take it we will have no further discussion on this matter,” Somerton said.

Guy’s pulse pounded in his temples. “No, sir.” He bowed and turned to leave. His world felt tilted, out of kilter. By deciphering one of Valère’s messages, he had provided the door to Cora’s imprisonment. Good God, how was he supposed to live with such knowledge?

He thought of their journey tomorrow, made all the more difficult with this bit of treachery between them. The best he could hope for was that she never learned of his involvement. Could he be her friend while hiding such a hideous secret?

For a little while. Enough time for Somerton to track down the Frenchman and secure Cora’s safety. After that…

Cora would no doubt balk at the enforced rustication. As he made his way to the entrance hall, his mind sifted through various schemes on how to mitigate her displeasure.

He rejected them all. She had never abandoned a fight before, and running off to the country would rub raw her natural instinct to meet Valère’s threat head-on.

Releasing a resigned breath, he made up his mind to do whatever it took to keep her safe.

Even if it required force.

Valère set his empty wine glass down next to the floral abomination on the small, round table. Rather than an elegant arrangement of blood red roses, Alexander Grillon decorated his lobby with a disorderly assortment of sprays, leaves, and small flower buds. Valère’s vision wasn’t the only one of his senses assaulted by the bouquet. His nose was equally offended. Why would anyone choose the earthy scent of wildflowers over the exotic fragrance of a velvety rose, or, better yet, jasmine? One would think the former
chef
de
cuisine
to Lord Crewe would be gifted with a more refined taste.

“Pardon me, sir.”

His muscles tightened at the interruption, but he was careful not to reveal such emotion. Instead, he took a moment to retrieve the gold-rimmed spectacles from his pocket and slid them in place. Squinting through the thick layer of glass, he peered up at the tall blond waiter. “Yes?”

“The quiet booth you requested is now open,” the waiter said. “Perhaps you would prefer to lounge there, sir?”

“Yes, indeed, young man.” He analyzed his response, ensuring no hint of accent had escaped his control. Pleased with the result, he eased himself into a standing position, slowly straightening his back. He began a slow, arduous shuffle across the lobby of Grillon’s Hotel, his ivory-handled cane clicking across the tiled floor.

Opened less than a year ago, the hotel still smelled of fresh mortar and new upholstery. The brass fixtures gleamed beneath the flickering lamplight, and every horizontal surface glowed with a scratch-free shine. Selecting Grillon’s proved the perfect choice for Valère’s business. Situated near Bond Street’s fashionable shopping district and St. James’s Street’s notorious row of gentlemen’s clubs, the hotel was a popular choice for London’s elite. All manner of
on
-
dits
could be overheard here, just by sitting quietly. He had gleaned more intelligence in a single afternoon than he would have gathered from Paris in a year’s time.
Stupid
English, they think they are safe on their little island.

“Pardon, sir?”

The waiter’s question caused a hitch in Valère’s step. Had he spoken his thoughts aloud? By the expectant look on the waiter’s face, he must assume so. An intolerable mistake. He must be vigilant while on the enemy’s territory. Mishaps like that could trap him on this miserable spit of land.

As they approached their destination, he skimmed the half-shielded booth and his lip curled up. “Be so kind as to remove the table decoration,” Valère ordered as a means of distraction. “The flowers make me sneeze.” Not at all true. But such subterfuge was sometimes necessary to achieve his goal or ensure his comfort, two areas he deemed of the highest priority.

“Apologies, sir.” The waiter picked up the arrangement and held it respectfully behind his back. “May I bring you another Burgundy?”

Valère considered the late afternoon gloom and decided to indulge in another glass. “You may.”

The waiter pushed back the concealing drape so Valère could maneuver himself up onto the bench. Once he settled in, the heavy, sapphire-colored material fell back in place, and he was alone. He should have felt a sense of peace or comfort at having escaped the bustle of Grillon’s. But he did not. Serenity had visited him only once during his thirty-three years, and that was at the command of a sable-haired English spy.

No other woman had ever been brave enough to seize control of his bed, to demand of him absolute obedience. And to punish him when he failed. He failed often.

The image of a particularly satisfying session pulsed seductively through his mind, his body stirred, and he released a slow, uneven breath.

As he had done so many times since her escape, he pulled a delicately embroidered handkerchief from his coat pocket. Even after weeks of handling, the silk still held the faint scent of jasmine.

Cora.
Before he could will them otherwise, his eyes closed so he could absorb the full effect of her exotic scent.

Besides his constant pursuit of power and money, few things held his attention beyond a passing glance. Everything and everyone had their place and use.

Until the English beauty crashed into him at the Comédie Française theater.

From the moment he had peeled her off his chest, she had become an obsession. Her exquisite beauty, unrepentant intelligence, and lack of apparent interest in his position had fueled his unprecedented desire to possess her.

Instead of furthering his ambitions, he had spent hours contemplating how to entice her into his bed, and then he had spent hours entertaining her in said bed. If there were times when she had seemed less than enthusiastic about their entertainments, he had ascribed her feminine sensitivity to inexperience, which he knew how to remedy.

For a blinding moment, a mere second of agonizing time, he had considered ignoring her betrayal. His need for her special skills was that great. He would never forgive her for taking away his finest pleasure or for tempting him to forsake his duty to his emperor. Never.

He crumpled the handkerchief into his hand. His obsession with her had cost him the trust of his superiors and the respect of his men. He could buy more men, but it would take him years to cultivate such powerful allies again. Years he did not have.

Once he had deduced that she was not only a filthy English spy but also the menace Raven, he knew the only way to earn back his superiors’ favor was to kill anyone who threatened the expansion of French ideals. If he succeeded, he would be lauded a hero. His actions would catch the notice of the emperor himself, who would no doubt seek Valère’s counsel on future campaigns.

Valère released the square of silk and smoothed out the wrinkles. Unfolding it, he slid his forefinger along the silky item inside.

A smile played over his lips when he recalled Boucher’s knife severing the first lock of Cora’s sable hair. Soon after, handfuls of her thick, lustrous hair fell in cheerless clumps around her feet. She had not uttered a sound of protest or a whimper of distress. Her show of courage made him yearn for her more. So he did what any man in his position would do—he removed every bit of her allure.

The memory released a wave of regret. Before Boucher had alerted him of her perfidy, Valère had begun making plans for a more permanent alliance. Not marriage, of course. He couldn’t have his children tainted by such inferior blood.

But a mistress, whose ambition equaled his own and who would prove a powerful ally… and well-trained bedmate.

A shadow cast over the booth. Valère carefully folded the handkerchief over the lock of hair and returned it to his pocket before welcoming the newcomer. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

“I do not care to be summoned, Mr. Taylor.”

Valère sent his visitor a confident smile. “Sometimes these things cannot be avoided.” He motioned to the opposite bench. “Please. Sit.”

Unable to do anything else, the other man sat stiffly across from him, balancing his walking stick against the padded bench.

Fitted with a severe black kerseymere coat covering a dark gray patterned waistcoat and topped with an elegant but simply tied neckcloth, his visitor was the epitome of a pompous English aristocrat. With no bright colors, the gentleman looked dressed for a funeral rather than an important business meeting.

“Now that our pleasantries have concluded, what news do you have?” Valère watched his visitor’s lips firm in indecision, watched him sift through which falsehood to share. He had seen it a thousand times, to nauseating degrees. All informants who still retained a bit of their morality and patriotism went through the same phases as their brethren before them.

They first assessed Valère’s physical strength, his mental fortitude, and finally his inclination toward violence. No matter their skill at such negotiations, they all eventually surrendered. The only question was when. He normally enjoyed the verbal fencing sessions, but this informant held answers that were of personal interest to Valère. He had no wish to wait for the man’s answers.

When his informant remained silent, Valère released a regretful breath. “Need I remind you of your current circumstances, my lord?”

“No.”

“Then why the delay? You have something I want, and I have something you want, yes?”

The man’s jaw tightened so hard Valère feared the bone would crack.

Finally, the informant revealed, “They are removing her to Hampshire.”

Valère had expected Lord Somerton to secret her away, but a specific location had eluded him. “Where in Hampshire?”

“Helsford’s maiden aunt left him a modest country estate in Yateley.”

“At what distance is Yateley from London?”

“A fair day’s carriage ride.” His informant’s hard gaze shifted to the milling crowd.

Valère examined the various minutiae he knew of this high-ranking official until one detail stood out above all others. “Correct me if I’m wrong, my lord, but I believe you own a residence in this Oxfordshire region, do you not?”

The man returned his resigned yet furious gaze back to Valère. “Yes.”

“Ah, very good. I have one more favor to ask of you, my lord.” He took little pleasure from the starkness of the man’s features, for his mind had already turned toward the next level of his plan, which was shaping into a rather stimulating game of chess.

He loved chess. Excelled at it as he did every game of stratagem. The Raven—the Black Queen—was not the only one who could penetrate enemy lines.