My Surrender (4 page)

Jermyn Street, Piccadilly
July 15, 1806

T
HE EARLY EVENING AIR WAS STILL,
warm, and heavy. The man standing in the shadows of St. James’ churchyard’s ancient trees loosened the stock about his throat, his gaze riveted on the discreet but elegant door of the town house across the street. He’d wasted enough time waiting for the courtesan within to place herself in a vulnerable situation. Time was running out. He would have to act soon. Force the issue.

He forced a deep breath into his lungs, releasing it slowly as his active imagination picked through a score of possibilities, searching for the best solution to his quandary. Who should he be when he set his plan in motion? A constable? An old woman? A ragman? A soldier?

The faces of all those he had pretended to be tumbled like patterns in a kaleidoscope through his imagination, swirling and blurring until he could no longer see his own features superimposed upon the masks and caricatures he’d created over the years. Knowing who he was, who he
really
was, was the only thing that mattered.

A little frisson of panic danced along his nerve endings. His hands fisted into balls, the nails digging into his flesh. With an effort he forced himself to relax.

There was only one way to make sure he remembered who he was. He must go back to the beginning and retrieve the identity he’d misplaced along the way.

And
she
would help him.

A thin smile flashed across his shadowed features. How ironic that Charlotte Nash should be the key to his redemption, his return from the dead, his phoenix-like rise from the ashes. How ironic and yet how perfectly fitting. Sometimes, when he saw her, spoke to her, he lost himself in her odd, lovely eyes, forgot what it was he sought. She was really most unique. Most fascinating. A man, a normal decent man, might fall in love with a woman like her.

But he wasn’t that man.

The evening shadows had deepened, softening the first fine lines appearing at the corners of Ginny Mulgrew’s magnificent eyes. She tilted her head, closely examining her image in the mirror, wondering if now was the time to have her staff replace the expensive candelabras and chandeliers in her house with new ones, ones that held fewer candles and thus would shed less light. She made this assessment without sentiment or regret, evaluating the situation with the cold practicality of a general devising a military campaign.

A courtesan is ever conscious of such details.

Tonight it was especially important that she be in rare fine looks. At this evening’s opera, she would accept the Comte St. Lyon’s invitation to join him for his “house party” at his estate in Scotland.

She tilted her chin, searching for signs of sagging. If she found any, she would forthwith adopt necklaces and chokers though, until now, her flawless décolletage had needed no ornamentation. But at thirty-six years of age, such bold confidence might not be warranted.

She pulled a long, artfully curled tress of hair free of its equally artfully unwinding coiffure and fingered it thoughtfully. Still glossy and plentiful, still owning that rich and distinct auburn hue to which so many toasts had been drunk in so many gentlemen’s clubs. Her skin was still clear and fine grained. Only her hands betrayed the advent of middle years, a little thin now that they had lost some of the youthful padding that once covered the slender bones and sinews. She would wear gloves from now on. Lace or doeskin.

Ginny Mulgrew was a most practical woman. She understood to a nicety that her beauty paid the rent as well as gained her entrée into the fringes of the society from which her husband had attempted to exclude her.

Her husband. The thought of the odious creature brought a bitter twist to her lips. He would not divorce her no matter how many times she pleaded with him to do so, no matter how she behaved, no matter how many men, some of whom even belonged to his own club, had enjoyed her favors. Knowing how much she desired to be free of him, he refused.

It was his punishment to her for not being able to bear him children.

Well, at least she had the pleasure of knowing they both suffered.

She hadn’t set out to be a courtesan. It had taken five years of banishment to an impecunious existence in a derelict castle in Ireland to help make that decision. No, she hadn’t set out to be a whore, any more than she had set out to be a spy.

But when one of her early lovers, a man highly placed in those little known offices that manage such things, suggested she might be of service to her king—and make a tidy sum of money in doing so—she had willingly agreed. She hadn’t done it for the money. She had done so, she supposed with that clear self-scrutiny that was characteristic of her, as a means of assuaging her distaste for what and who she had become.

A soft knock at the door preceded the entrance of the tall, blond footman, Finn. “Pardon, ma’am, but there’s a gentleman downstairs requesting a moment of your time.”

This was hardly new. Gentlemen were always requesting a moment of Ginny’s time…and a great deal more. But the absence of a calling card and something in the footman’s disapproving expression piqued her curiosity as well as aroused some slight alarm. The feeling that a malevolent gaze studied her from hidden places, that her movements were being carefully observed, had grown over the last few days.

Of course, a spy always thought such things.

“Who is it, Finn?”

“He would not say.”

One of those. Some aristocrat with an overblown sense of his own importance who would not be caught dead visiting her home without hiding under a cloak of anonymity. She was well past the stage where she needed to pander to such vanity. She had a bit of her own left to tend. “Tell him I’m not at home.”

“I did,” Finn replied, startling Ginny. If Finn had tried to send him off without even informing her of his presence, he must be scurrilous indeed. Scurrilous sorts interested Ginny. As well, if he was her hidden watcher, it would be best if she knew his face.

“Show him in,” she said. She rose, looking over the room for a more flattering setting, ever awake to the possibility that the gentleman—scurrilous or not—might be worth the trouble. She chose the rose-colored chaise, reclining on her side, her naked feet curled beneath her. Gentlemen thought naked feet extremely naughty.

A tap on the door, a throaty bid of “come,” and Finn reappeared, announcing, “Mr. Ross, ma’am.”

Ginny’s first thought was that the man
was
scurrilous, dressed roughly, his boots scarred and his disheveled hair framing a face darkened by a beard. Her second thought was that Finn, if he discarded this man as unworthy of her attention, had no taste.

The man was tall, broad-shouldered and lean, almost rangy, moving with careless fluidity as he entered. His expression was neutral, his mouth firm and mobile, but the lamplight exposed a sardonic glint in his tawny brown eyes and a scar lurking beneath the beard. She judged him to be somewhere in his late twenties. A very nice age for a man.

“That will be all, Finn,” she nodded to the footman.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Mulgrew.” A faint accent. Scottish?

“You’re welcome, Mr. Ross,” she said. “Won’t you be seated?”

“Thank you.” He sank carelessly down in a chair set at right angles to the chaise. The loose-fitting trousers stretched over his thighs, revealing hard, well-muscled legs. His strong-looking hands curled lightly over the carved ends of the arm. The tanned skin bore a fretwork of little pale scars. They’d been roughly used at one time.

The smile fell from Ginny’s lips. “Who are you?”

His smile disappeared, too. The impression of carelessness, as she’d suspected, was a lie. “I am a friend of Miss Charlotte Nash.”

“A friend,” she repeated flatly, allowing no hint of her sudden apprehension to show in her face. Instead, she let her gaze travel over him with humiliating skepticism.

“Yes,” he replied as he subjected her low décolletage, nearly transparent gown, and unbound tresses to a similar scrutiny. “Apparently Miss Nash has a habit of collecting…” He paused tellingly. “Shall we say,
unusual
friends?”

The riposte brokered an unwilling smile. “Touché.”

This, Ginny decided, must be the man she’d heard about this afternoon, the man who’d been seeking information about her but whose identity she hadn’t been able to ascertain. She hadn’t expected him to look so rough. Uncivilized.

How would someone like him come to be associated with Charlotte?

Her hand slipped under the pillow beside her, brushing the pearl-inlaid butt of the primed pistol she kept there at all times. “You’ve had a busy afternoon, Mr. Ross.”

He regarded her questioningly.

“I have heard from several sources that you have been inquiring after me. And not those sources who generally smooth the way for an introduction between myself and my gentleman friends. N’est-ce pas?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Hence, I am predisposed to believe that you are one of our Charlotte’s papist associates—working in the same vein as myself but from a different approach, if you will.”

“Same vein?”

“As a spy,” she replied concisely.

A flicker in his eyes. “If you are a spy, Mrs. Mulgrew, you are not very discreet,” he murmured. “What if I was a French agent?”

“Then you chose the wrong men to query,” she stated baldly, “and would be dead by now. The men you questioned have allegiances to my friends. They would not have answered your questions without being at least certain of what you are not.

“Now, shall we dispense with the verbal fencing and get on with the business at hand?” At his silence, she continued. “Why were you asking about me?”

“As I have said, I am a friend of Miss Nash.”

“What of Charlotte?” she asked.

“I am afraid you may have involved ‘our Charlotte’ in some machinations that could possibly bring harm to her. I am here so that you might convince me otherwise.” Though he spoke in mild tones, a little shiver of apprehension ran up Ginny’s spine, causing her hand to curl around the butt of the hidden pistol.

“Such concern for her welfare,” she said, smiling a little wistfully and darting a provocative glance at him. “ ’Struth, I envy Miss Nash her ‘friends.’ ”

He wasn’t having it. He met her coquettish gaze without a trace of budding interest.

“Are you her brother? Cousin? Uncle?” she continued. “Who are you that her welfare is your concern? And I will not consider ‘friend’ a satisfactory answer.”

“It may have to be,” he replied. “Suffice to say, I am committed to her well-being.”

It came to her then, spurred on by memories of the rumors and tales surrounding Ramsey Munro, the marquis of Cottrell, and Colonel Christian MacNeill. The Rose Hunters, they’d called themselves, young men imprisoned in France for plotting the overthrow of Napoleon’s government but captured before they could implement their plan. Their lives had been forfeit until Charlotte’s father, Colonel Nash, had traded his life for theirs. By way of reparation, they had sworn to protect and serve Nash’s widow and orphaned daughters.

She scoured her memory for further details. The young men had been betrayed in a French prison by someone within their own circle, whether one of their own or someone from the abbey where they had been raised no one was certain. A few years later, the unnamed traitor had made attempts on first MacNeill’s and then Cottrell’s life where, during this last attempt, Charlotte’s sister Helena had stabbed him. He had disappeared after that. It had been assumed he’d died of his wound.

It also had been assumed that the man Helena had stabbed as the traitor and murderer and this man were one and the same. Dand Ross.

Ginny’s shiver of apprehension became a surge of fear.

“You’re him,” she said softly. Her index finger curled around the trigger. “The last Rose Hunter.”

He said nothing. He looked utterly relaxed. Except for his eyes.

The only thing that kept Ginny from taking out the pistol and shooting him at once was the realization that of all the people who had speculated and mused and come to the conclusion that Andrew Ross was the only person who could possibly be the traitor and murderer, Charlotte alone had withheld comment.

Which was, now that Ginny thought of it, rather odd. Because she knew Dand Ross was not dead? Or because she knew he was not culpable? Or both?

Charlotte, Charlotte,
she thought,
what secrets have you been keeping from me?

But of course, if this Dand was a papist spy, Charlotte would be obligated to keep both his identity and his existence a secret. Apparently Charlotte was very good at keeping secrets.

“Well, Mr. Ross, how can I reassure you regarding our mutual friend?”

“Explain to me Miss Nash’s part in the plan she outlined to me, the plan involving the Comte St. Lyon’s house party.”

Ginny smothered her start of surprise.

“What exactly has Charlotte told you, that naughty child?” The indulgent tone she’d hoped for failed her. Where exactly did that ‘child’s’ allegiance lie?

“I know that you are seeking the retrieval of a letter currently held by the Comte St. Lyon. I know he is planning to auction it off and that you are going to steal it. All I want to know is what role you have assigned Miss Nash.”

“None.”

At his skeptical expression she shrugged. “She provides a bit of divertissement, is all. She is so deliciously ingenuous. People are continually trying to trump her by blurting out the most indiscreet things. Added to which she has a talent for knowing a variety of diverse people with, shall we say, diverse skills?”

“Like architects.”

She nodded. “ ’Twas Charlotte who found the gentleman with the blueprints to St. Lyon’s castle. She heard an old dowager advising another to have the garderobes in her family castle restored by the same fellow who had done such a wondrous job on the Comte St. Lyon’s newly acquired castle.

“So, you see, our Charlotte, for all her youth and seeming flightiness, is extremely useful. Not to mention courageous and—”