One Night of Passion (17 page)

“In a moment, my lady,” Horatio, Viscount Nelson replied, returning to the balcony where he’d been standing in the shadows watching Lord Danvers make his escape.

It was with a heavy heart that he watched his friend leave.

Danvers was one of his best captains—and as it turned out, an exceptional intelligence officer. The information he’d been collecting in the last year had aided British efforts on more than one occasion, and yet he’d been unable to find the one thing they absolutely needed to discover.

The identity of the traitor in their midst.

Then as Colin slipped over the wall, the one thing that Nelson had feared and half hoped wouldn’t happen did.

A second figure stepped out from behind a statue and began a furtive chase after Danvers. But the man wasn’t as cunning as Danvers, for he walked near enough to one of the garden’s torches for Nelson to see the color of his coat.

An English naval uniform.

So it was true.
He was being betrayed by one of his own. It pained him more than the loss of his arm at Santa Cruz.

But who? There were at least five English ships in port, and perhaps fifty officers in total in Naples who could be wearing that uniform.

There was nothing left to do but let his trap catch this accursed spy.

It was just too bad he had to use Danvers to lure the man and his French friends out into the open.

He only hoped Colin was wily enough to escape their enemies, who now would most certainly be alerted to his activities and likely have a full accounting of his current orders.

And if Colin wasn’t clever enough . . .

Nelson didn’t want to consider what he had just done. By not telling Danvers that his secret mission had been discovered by their enemies, Nelson was literally feeding him to the sharks.

It had not been an easy decision, but with the French descending down Italy’s boot like voracious wolves, a necessary one.

At the door, Lady Hamilton continued to knock impatiently. “My lord, are you well? I shall send for your manservant and your physician immediately if you do not open this door.”

Nelson shook his head, fighting the urge to call Danvers back, to signal the
Sybaris
into shore and call an end to this charade.

But he couldn’t.

This was war, and they must uncover who on Nelson’s staff was selling secrets to the French.

And right now, Captain Danvers was Nelson’s biggest secret . . . and best weapon.

“I’ll have a key brought if you do not open this door,” Lady Hamilton called out.

Nelson smiled at the country accent tweaking the lady’s words. It always came out when Emma was vexed or excited. He made his way over to the door, limping from the injuries plaguing his leg, and twisted the latch open.

“Who are you closeted away with?” Lady Hamilton demanded as she sailed into the room, glancing left and right in a bold search for a rival.

“No one,” he replied. “I’m all alone.”

“You’re a charming man, Horatio,” she said, “but a poor liar.”

“If I told you it was a matter of state, would you leave it at that?”

The lady placed one of her delicate hands on his cheek and stroked his face. “No. For you work too hard, my love. You must rest if you are to regain your strength.”

“There is too much to do for England.”

“England will survive this night without your safekeeping,” she whispered, as she moved into his ready embrace. “Especially when there is much you could do for me.”

Nelson welcomed her concern and her love. This was his Emma, his dearest girl. She gave him a much needed respite from the heavy duties and responsibilities that weighed on his heart.

Like Lord Danvers.

“Come downstairs and enjoy some company,” she said, drawing back a bit and smiling up at him. “These secret meetings drain your vigor.”

“Why do you think I’ve been having a secret meeting?”

She glanced about the room. “Your chair is turned to that one over there,” she said, pointing at the other chair in the room. “And if you were doing your regular paperwork, as you profess, you would have Mr. Tyson up here to assist you. As it is, you insisted on being left alone, undisturbed. I must conclude you had a private meeting to attend.” She eyed him carefully. “And sorry business it was, for you look as if you have just consigned someone to the dog.”

“The cat,” he corrected.

“Oh, yes, that horrid thing. What was it, fifty lashes or a hundred?”

“Nothing like that, my lady,” he told her, leaving the room and following her down to the party.

Far worse,
he thought.
I have sent my friend out to die at the
hands of a traitor.

The village of Volturno, Italy

A fortnight later

Clinging to the worn sheets, Georgie writhed and tossed in her sleep. Someone was arguing in the distance, their words unintelligible, but their voices so familiar.

She shifted again, trying to discern what they were saying.

I’m going, Brigette. I must. I promised her I would be
there tonight. If I’m not there . . .

Papa, no!
Georgie tried to cry out. Her feet pedaled against the footboards of the inn’s bed, trying to catch up with the departing figure, lost in the darkness of her nightmare, quickly consumed by the hiss of flames.

Somewhere in the blackness, the crack of a pistol brought Georgie awake. The bed linens were soaked in sweat, her hands wound around them so tightly, her knuckles glowed white.

“Georgie?” Kit called out, scrambling up from her smaller bed across the spacious room. “I thought I heard—”

More shots finished her sister’s speculations.

Georgie sat bolt upright. The shot she’d heard hadn’t been part of her nightmare, but a harbinger of what was about to arrive in their midst.

The French.
The rumors of their coming were no longer just the stuff of idle gossip.

“Get dressed,” she told her sister. “We need to leave. Now.”

Cautiously, she approached the balcony off their room, not daring to venture out onto it, but edging the door open enough to take a look.

The moonless, rainy night afforded little in the way of views, though beyond the inn and in the distance, Georgie spied the red flicker of torches moving through the streets and the higher flames of fires that were consuming anything the French could find to burn.

And the mayhem was getting closer with each passing moment.

Damn their hides,
she thought. Even worse, they were coming in from the south, cutting off any hope of them slipping back down the coast to Naples.

What was it Mrs. Taft always said?
Out of the frying pan . . .

Here they had fled England in the wake of the physician’s discovery that she wasn’t a virgin, and her uncle’s decision to wed Kit to Lord Harris in her stead, and now they were in all likelihood about to find themselves at the mercy of the French.

Better them than Uncle Phineas and Lord Danvers,
Georgie thought wryly. Still, if only Italy could have remained the haven that they had found it to be . . .

At least they’d had a few months of peace. It had been the first time in over a year when Georgie hadn’t felt hunted and haunted.

It had started back in London once Georgie had realized the full extent of her predicament. She had even gone back to Bridwick House to see if word could be sent to Colin about her condition. But the house had been shuttered tight, and her knocks and inquiries at both the front door and servants’ entrance had gone unanswered.

Oh, Colin,
she had prayed on more than one occasion.
Please come and find me. See us away from this wretched
disaster.
But as far as she knew, he’d sailed off on some unknown ship and she would never see him again.

Yet her prayers hadn’t gone unanswered, only in an entirely different manner than she’d ever thought possible.

Late one afternoon when their uncle and aunt were out making preparations for Kit’s wedding, a solicitor had called. He had come regarding Mrs. Taft’s will. Apparently the good lady had left her entire estate to the girls. The small, slight man had pushed his spectacles up on his nose and apologized profusely for taking so long to get the funds and properties in order, but he’d had some difficulties finding a buyer for the
Sybaris,
Captain Taft’s ship.

But recently he had completed the sale, and the money was awaiting them in the bank—the solicitor just needed to know what arrangements they wanted to make with their inheritance. Hardly a fortune, but for Georgie’s and Kit’s needs, it was more than enough. Mrs. Taft’s will even provided that Georgie be allowed the discretion of managing the money for Kit and herself, though the solicitor said he thought it best to ignore such a foolish notion and simply turn the care of their inheritance over to their uncle.

Georgie did her best not to laugh in the man’s face. Turn over this heaven-sent sum to Uncle Phineas? She might as well toss it all in the Thames and be done with it.

Instead, she thanked the man for his concern, fetched Kit, and quickly packed whatever belongings they could carry. They departed the Escott town house in all due haste, with the rather shocked solicitor in tow.

Their first stop was at the bank. Even as the clerk counted out their traveling expenses and the banker drafted a letter of credit for one “Mrs. Bridwick,” Georgie fashioned their best avenue of escape. If they fled north to Scotland, west to the wilds of Wales, or even to Ireland, their uncle would follow.

No, the only thing left to them was to flee Britain outright. Since the war with France had torn apart most of the Continent, it left only Italy as a safe place for them to seek refuge—with new names and new identities that would hide them from Uncle Phineas and their guardian, Lord Danvers, until Kit reached her majority.

There would be no more unsolicited marriages for either of them, Georgie vowed.

And from the bank they had gone to the docks and taken the first vessel heading down the Thames.

A ship, as chance would have it, headed for Naples. Standing on the deck, the wind blowing through her tangled curls, Georgie had wrapped her hands protectively over her stomach and hoped that mayhap, somehow, she’d find Colin again.

And this time, she wouldn’t be so likely to flee from his bed. She only hoped he would be as happy to see her.

A chill wind from the open door wrenched Georgie back to her current problem even as more shots rang out. She hastily began dressing, pulling on her gown and boots.

Her gaze turned to the sea, almost in longing, for it was their only hope of escape. But there wasn’t time to find a ship or even a boatman to take them away. She even considered stealing one of the numerous overturned fishing boats on the beach, but knew she and Kit alone could never drag one of them down to the water’s edge.

Yet as she turned back to the room, she swore she saw a flicker of light in the bay. Like a lamp suddenly lit, then just as quickly extinguished. She moved closer to the balcony and peered into the darkness, trying to discern anything outside, but between the dark and the steady rain that had begun to fall sometime during the night, she couldn’t see a thing.

In her desperation, she must have been imagining it.

Kit was already dressed, and was struggling to get a boot over her foot. “Sir William said the French troops wouldn’t dare come this far south.”

“Apparently he was wrong,” Georgie replied, wishing they had heeded the advice of his wife, Lady Hamilton, and stayed in Naples. But Kit had wanted to sketch the ruins outside this tiny seaside hamlet, and Georgie had reluctantly agreed to the side trip. Besides, she’d needed some rest from the hectic social whirl of Lady Hamilton. The ambassador’s wife had been unduly kind to them since their arrival in Naples, helping them find lodgings, introducing them around. Georgie suspected the lady knew her story of a deceased husband was a fiction, but akin to scandal herself, Lady Hamilton had deftly ignored the deficiencies in Georgie’s tale and gathered the two girls into her social circle.

As more shots rang out, this time followed by shouts and the warning chimes of the church bells, Georgie finished dressing, all the while trying to come up with an escape plan.

As they both donned dark cloaks, Georgie went to the nightstand and retrieved the only possession of her father’s that she still had—his pistol. Tucking it in a pocket inside her cloak, she sent up a little prayer of thanks to Captain Taft. The man had seen past her delicate sex to teach her how to use it. Even more so, she was thankful that last night she had taken the precaution of priming and loading it.

Her hands were shaking so badly, she didn’t know if she could manage it now. She also hoped that she didn’t have to fire the tricky piece. Shooting at harmless targets was one thing . . . at another person—that was an entirely different matter.

Kit stood by the door, her valise in one hand and her drawing pad and tool bag in the other.

“I’m ready,” she whispered.

Padding across the room, Georgie reached into the basket next to her bed and found it empty.

“Where’s—” she started to ask.

“In your satchel.” Kit grinned. “It seemed the best way.”

Georgie nodded in agreement, tucking the bag under her arm, her cloak swirling around her and the satchel like the protective wing of a bird.

She swept past her sister and into the hallway. Carefully they made their way down the darkened staircase of the inn and into the common room. Usually a sleepy place, with quiet patrons enjoying dishes of
orecchiette
and eggplant, politely sampling glasses of the local vintage, the room had erupted into chaos as the guests were trying to determine what was happening or how to escape.

“Monsignor Artimino, have the boy fetch my horses!” demanded an imperious English marquis who had made it known to all the guests in the past week that he was far too important to pay any of them heed. “I have connections with the King of England,” he was saying, though no one was really listening, “and he’ll hear of this if I am not well taken care of.”