Never a Gentleman (28 page)

The worst of it was that she was still aroused by what she had seen. Her body had no discretion. It didn’t care for honor
or betrayal or shame. It hungered. It hungered for Diccan. So after Schroeder left, Grace closed her eyes, as if she could
hide, and, just as her friends in the
zenena
had taught her, she brought herself relief, all the while seeing Diccan mount his mistress like an animal. Only there was
no relief. She lay awake the rest of the night, not moving, lest she lose the last semblance of control and shatter into shards
of pain.

How could Diccan have done that? How could that man make her watch? How could she ever face Diccan or Uncle Dawes or anyone
else she knew, with Diccan’s words still echoing in her head like a death sentence?
I married her. I’ll be damned if I have to fuck her.

It wasn’t until late the next morning that her intellect finally began to worm its way through the crippling pain. She had
taken her coffee out into the small back garden, hoping to avoid Diccan, and was sitting on the wrought iron bench that rested
against the back wall. From here she could see late roses and ash tree that had begun to turn, and almost imagined she sat
in the country.

It might have been why her mind calmed enough for the first, tiny voice of reason to assert itself. Yes, she thought, Diccan
had betrayed her. That would never hurt any less. It could never be forgotten, and she wasn’t at all certain it could be forgiven.
But had he betrayed his country?

Uncle Dawes had obviously believed it to be true, or he wouldn’t have been party to that little visit. Grace trusted her uncle.
She knew the man and she knew the soldier, and she couldn’t imagine anything that would compel him to hurt her unless it was
vital.

But she also knew Diccan. At least she knew him well
enough to know he had sacrificed comfort for honor. He could have backed out of their marriage. No matter what he’d said,
the onus wouldn’t have fallen that heavily on him. But he had refused to allow Grace to bear the brunt of disgrace alone.
And before that, back in Belgium, he had flawlessly and discreetly managed to get Jack Wyndham and his information safely
back to England.

Until Uncle Dawes had arrived at her house, Grace had never once thought to suspect Diccan of anything more than wasting himself
on frivolities. Even after hearing him offer his services to his mistress, she couldn’t quite believe that he would actually
harm his country.

The person she did not know in all this was Peter Carver, and the accusation of treason rested on his shoulders. He said he
worked for the Home Office, but she would be a fool to act without making sure of him. Which meant she had to get off this
little bench and do something.

Her first instinct would have been to go to Kate. But Uncle Dawes had echoed Mr. Carver’s warning. “She is Hilliard’s cousin.
We can’t trust that she won’t go right to him with the story.”

As much as Grace hated to admit it, he was right. Kate would go right to Diccan, who would undoubtedly throw up a smokescreen
the size of a London fog before Grace could learn the truth.

But Grace could tell Kit Braxton. Kit had also played a part in saving Jack Wyndham and in capturing the Surgeon. She knew
too well his sense of patriotism. Kit was the heir apparent to a dukedom. But rather than enjoy his prospects, he’d bought
a commission to fight and had almost died for his country. Grace could rely on him to discover the truth, and to do it discreetly.

“A spy?” he asked when she broached the subject as they walked through Hyde Park later that day. “Hilliard?” He began to laugh.

“This isn’t funny, Kit. I saw him myself, and it looked as if he was telling his mistress things he shouldn’t have been.”

Kit abruptly stopped, his face hard with outrage. “Saw him? Saw him where?”

Of course she blushed, a hideous red that undoubtedly spread to her toes. “Half Moon Street.”

For a moment, he couldn’t even formulate a response. “What the hell were you doing there?”

And so she told him about the night before. She revealed everything except Diccan calling her a cripple. There was no reason
to, she decided, no matter what it might have revealed.

By the time she finished her story, they had come to a halt by the Serpentine. Kit stared out over the gray water and rubbed
his injured shoulder. “Bastard,” he muttered.

“Maybe,” Grace answered. “But is he a treasonous bastard?”

“She told you
what
?”

Diccan was once again sharing his rooms at the Albany with the Rakes. At Braxton’s accusation, he came to his feet. He couldn’t
have heard correctly. Images of the night before spun past his exhausted brain. Visceral, mindless rutting. Callousness that
would have shriveled even a strong woman. And Grace had seen it? She’d heard it? She’d heard what he
said
?

“It’s impossible,” he insisted, needing to be told that
Braxton had been mistaken. That, please God, he was lying.

But Braxton was braced before him like a fighter waiting the bell, his expression hard, his fist clenched. “That you did it,
or that she saw it?”

“Oh, badly done,” Chuffy said from the settee, giving his head a ponderous shake. “One thing to have a mistress, Hilliard.
Quite another to make the wife watch. It’s perverted. I think the French do it.”

There were five of them this time: Chuffy and Braxton, Drake and Alex Knight, who worked in the War Office. And Diccan, called
from a bout with Gentleman Jackson, undoubtedly too soon. He still felt an overwhelming need to hit something.

“You heard me,” Braxton said to him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Diccan battled a blinding rage. “What the Foreign Office asked me to, damn it!”

“And you’ve brought us good information,” Drake acknowledged, handing him a glass of his own brandy. “Especially this last
lot. We’ll alert Wellington first thing.”

Diccan glared at him. “How the hell could Grace have seen me?” he demanded, thinking that Drake seemed far too unconcerned.
“Don’t you have that block of houses secure?”

“We should have.” Drake shook his head. “I’ll find out what happened.”

“You’re too bloody right you will!”

“Who did Mrs. Hilliard say escorted her to this private viewing?” Drake asked Braxton.

Still glaring, Braxton finally sat. “Her uncle. He evidently handed her off to a Mr. Peter Carver from the Home Office. Ever
heard of him?”

“Alex,” Drake asked. “You’re our eyes in Whitehall. Ring a bell?”

From the depths of Diccan’s best leather armchair, Alex nodded his curly blond head, making him look like a cherub accepting
grace. “Newish man in Sidmouth’s office. Secretary, I think.”

“Well, if he arranged last night’s travesty,” Diccan snapped, “he’s more than a bloody secretary.”

Again the memories assailed him. Minette’s earthy laugh, the scent of musk. The blind exhaustion of a hard climax. And Grace
had seen it all. She’d heard him call her a cripple.

He dropped onto the couch and threw back his brandy, needing the heat. He felt as if he were caught in a nightmare. He had
spent last night making sure no one thought Grace was worth hurting. And why should they have to? He’d evidently done a bang-up
job of it all by himself.

Christ. He thought he’d be sick. Why had he ever listened to that bastard Thirsk?

“I hear your mistress has come to England looking for you,” the peer had said when Diccan met him at his nondescript office
in Whitehall the day after running across Minette at McCarthy’s. “Respond.”

He’d responded all right. It had been shamefully easy at first. After all, he’d been celibate for weeks. He had begun to feel
a real regard for his wife, but how could he think of touching her, when he’d been told it would put her in danger? What could
it hurt, he’d told himself, to relieve a little tension? After all, he was doing it in the service of his country, wasn’t
he?

The pleasure had been short-lived. Oh, he could still fuck his former mistress. Minette could make a dead man
come. But pleasure had long since metamorphosed into frustration and guilt. How could he have known that his shapeless, colorless
wife would so thoroughly work her way into his regard? That he would come to value sense over seduction? Wit more than sensuality?

He almost laughed. The idea that Grace had no sensuality was ludicrous. All a person had to do was see her on a horse.

“You can’t do this anymore,” Kit Braxton said. “Give the whore to somebody else to turn.”

Chuffy raised a hand. “Happy to help.”

“I can’t,” Diccan said, hating those two words more than any he’d ever spoken.

How could he face Grace, Diccan asked himself, knowing he would see his betrayal reflected in her eyes? She wouldn’t even
challenge him about it. She wouldn’t think she had the right. And he couldn’t correct her.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” Braxton demanded, back on his feet.

It was Drake who answered. Diccan couldn’t manage it. “Somebody slipped Hilliard a note. If he doesn’t cooperate with Minette,
they’ll go after Grace.”

For a moment there was a stricken silence. “Can’t allow that,” Chuffy finally said. “Not to her.”

“But what are we going to do?” Braxton demanded.

It was left to Drake to tell the awful truth. “Nothing.”

Braxton looked even more stricken than Chuffy. Diccan knew just how they felt.

“There is something else you need to know,” Drake said. “Diccan’s household brigade paid off.”

Diccan lifted his head. “Babs didn’t say anything.”

“You haven’t been home. She got her girl Nancy into
Melvin’s home as a maid. Melvin’s Evenham’s lawyer. Nancy overheard Melvin speaking to someone about the verse Bentley was
supposed to have.”

Now even Chuffy was sitting up, alert. “The one we’re looking for?”

Drake nodded. “Seems it’s been found. The visitor, who Nancy didn’t see, said distinctly, ‘The whore has it. So we know where
it is when we need it.’ ”

Diccan felt his stomach drop. “The whore. Minette?”

Drake shrugged. “Who else? Nancy said it sounded like they couldn’t implement the main part of their plan without the verse.
Which means we need to find the bloody thing before they do.”

Diccan glared. “Search her house.”

“We did. You need to search her.”

“Shouldn’t be hard,” Chuffy mused. “Ain’t in the habit of wearin’ a vast amount o’ clothes.”

Diccan thought of the pile of luggage Minette seemed to need. “It could be anywhere.”

“Well, find it.” Drake climbed to his feet. “In the meantime, I’m sending Ferguson off to keep an eye over Wellington in Paris.
Chuffy, you’re still chumming it up with the Evenhams, and Alex, you’re keeping your ear to the ground at Whitehall. Check
on this Carver chap.”

He got nods from everyone but Chuffy, who was pulling on his ear as if it would help him think. “If the government’s compromised,”
he mused, “just who can we trust?”

“Drake’s Rakes, Chuff. Nobody else.”

That seemed enough for Chuffy.

Diccan rose to his feet. “And my wife?”

“You have to tell her,” Braxton objected. “You know you can trust her. Need I remind you just who she is? Or
that she helped get the information on the Lions in the first place?”

“I will allow that she’s brave,” Drake said. “But we can’t count on her to keep from giving herself away. The Lions have to
think she has truly been deserted by Diccan, or they’ll use her for leverage. Would you bet her life on her ability to pretend?”

Even Kit, Grace’s most loyal Grenadier, couldn’t say yes. Which meant, Diccan thought bleakly, he would have to find a way
to hurt her even worse.

“The only thing more important than her safety,” Drake said, “Is the country’s.”

“Need to do that,” Chuffy said suddenly. “Keep her safe. Still, Diccan. Not the thing.”

Diccan agreed. It was not the thing at all.

Grace was dressing for a rout at the Wildes when Diccan slammed through the door to her boudoir. “Out,” was all he said to
Schroeder.

The abigail glared, but she complied, leaving Grace sitting in nothing but her chemise and stays.

Diccan didn’t seem to notice. He was swaying a bit, as if the ground were uncertain. “I have just learned that you were at
Half Moon Street last night.”

Disappointment bore her down. “Did Kit tell you?”

“Braxton? You’ve talked to
Braxton
about this?” He stepped right up to tower over her, his eyes glowing with a peculiar light that sent chills racing through
her. “Do you want to tell me why you shared our private business with Kit Braxton?”

She sat absolutely still, afraid she would unleash all of
her pain on him. It would be pointless and humiliating, and solve nothing.

“You haven’t answered me, Grace,” Diccan sneered, his words a bit slurred. He’d been drinking, Grace thought, surprised. She
couldn’t imagine Diccan Hilliard ever being in less than perfect control.

Well, except the night he’d made love to her. Maybe he simply couldn’t abide her sober.

“You didn’t expect me to ask you, did you?”

For a moment, she thought she had hurt him. Instead of turning away, though, he leaned even closer, his eyes glittering. “Did
you enjoy watching, Grace? Were you satisfied by what you saw?”

It was all she could do to hold still. Her stomach turned. Her hands were clenched so tightly she thought her palms would
bleed. She’d be damned, though, if she gave him the satisfaction of reacting.

“Are you?” she asked instead, never looking away from him.

He blinked. “Am I what?”

She tilted her head. “A spy.”

Diccan quirked a chilly eyebrow. “My dear girl, I barely have the energy to be a diplomat. Where would you get such a ludicrous
idea?”

“Actually, my Uncle Dawes. He’s the one who took me to that house.”

He looked away a moment, his laugh harsh. “At least he has proof I’m not a nancy boy. What exactly did you see?”

Her heart sped; she couldn’t tell whether from fear or, damn him, arousal. “Besides the obvious?”