Seduction (11 page)

“I am a man of great principle,” Tom said. “I abhor despotism and tyranny. Of course I am supportive of the great revolution in France.” He added, grimly, “I also appreciate the sacrifices you have made.”

Charles smiled and glanced at Julianne. “I am going to leave you to your conversation.”

As they all started toward the house, Tom restrained her, so that they fell behind Charles. He halted, and Julianne had no choice but to do so, too. “What is it?”

“I do not trust him,” Tom said in a low voice.

“Tom!” Julianne gasped.

“A jeweler’s son?” he scoffed. “That man is as patrician as St. Just.”

A
FTER
T
OM
HAD
LEFT
,
Julianne hurried upstairs. Charles was sitting at the table, reading the newspapers she had brought him. For one moment, her heart turned over hard, as she watched him. He glanced up and smiled.

She smiled back, but then became grim, entering. “Tom is suspicious of you.”

His brows lifted and he was amused. “How so?”

“He doesn’t think you a French army officer!”

“He doesn’t like me, Julianne.” Charles calmly laid his newspaper aside.

“He took an instant dislike to you. And he seems suspicious of our relationship, too.” She walked over to the table and sat.

Charles took her hand. “He is in love with you, so of course he dislikes me. But we hardly spoke to one another. If he has suspicions, they are not of our making.”

“Should we worry?” she asked.

Charles was indifferent. “I have been through too much to worry about what Treyton thinks of me. Is there war news?”

Of course he needed the latest news. She would not even consider Tom’s suspicions. “It isn’t very good, Charles. Lyon, Toulon and Marseilles are in rebel hands.” She rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. One day, he would be in France, facing those rebels or the allied armies. She did not want to think about it—not now, not yet.

But his expression never changed. If he was as dismayed as she was, he did not show it.

Then she recalled that odd request from Marcel. “We have heard from our friends in Paris, as well. Apparently we can help the revolution. An émigré has moved to Cornwall and we have been asked to locate him, although I don’t know why that would be useful to the cause.”

“They undoubtedly wish to infiltrate his household, to uncover any royalist plots against the Republic,” Charles said evenly. “They might even wish to send assassins. Will you do as you have been asked?”

She started. “Of course I must help, but surely no one means to assassinate an émigré!”

“If he is plotting against the Republic, as most émigrés are, he will be disposed of.”

She was aghast.

“Do not involve yourself,” Charles said flatly, as if giving a command. “It is too dangerous an assignment. If you succeed, they might ask you to infiltrate the household and actively spy. As intelligent as you are, you are too honest to be adept at spying. Stay out of it, Julianne.”

“I would be a terrible spy, but I don’t think I will be asked to spy on anyone.”

“You are naive. It is a part of your charm.” Charles dropped his hand. “You are fond of Tom.”

She went still. “We are friends.”

“He seems well heeled. Does he come from a good family?”

“Yes, he does. Why on earth are you asking?”

“Is he a suitor?”

She was taken aback. “How can you even ask such a thing?”

His stare intensified. A pregnant pause ensued. “I can suggest it because we have both been avoiding the subject of my departure from Greystone.”

Her heart lurched. “Don’t.”

He slowly stood. “Don’t what? Bring up a subject we both wish to avoid?”

“Don’t go,” she whispered. “Not yet.”

“Julianne.” He moved past her and closed the door. Julianne did not protest—but if Amelia came upstairs, there would be a huge explanation to make. “I must leave. We both know I could have left days ago. We both know why I have lingered here.”

She got to her feet, sick with dread now. She had spent the past weeks dreaming of his smile, of being in his arms, of his laugh and of their next rendezvous. She had very deliberately avoided thinking of the future. She had deliberately avoided thinking of his returning to France to rejoin the war.

It did not feel as if she could let him go. She was so deeply in love. “Can you stay a little longer?”

He hesitated. “It will probably take me a few days to make my travel plans.”

She took his hand. She knew she should tell him that all he had to do was walk into the tavern in Sennen and he would find a half a dozen young men, all smugglers, eager to cross the Channel, if they were well paid.

“Will you go back to the front lines?” she heard herself ask harshly.

“Undoubtedly.”

She felt fear then. “How will I know if you are alive and well?”

“It would be best if, when we said goodbye, we cut all ties.”

She was shocked speechless.

He was silent and grim.

“Surely you mean to write to me!” she finally cried.

His expression never changed. “Yes, I could write to you,” he said flatly, unsmiling. “But what would be the point? I will be in France, while you are here pining for me. When you should be thinking of other men—suitors who can offer you marriage. Should I then allow myself to miss you? To want you? To what end, Julianne? It would be better for us both to say goodbye and sever all ties.”

“I could wait for you. All wars end.”

He came around the table and clasped both of her shoulders. “I know this is hard for you. I don’t want you waiting for me. I don’t want you pining for me. I have many regrets, but Julianne, damn it, I do not regret our affair.” He was harsh, his eyes hard. “You do not deserve to be a war widow here in Cornwall. You deserve far more than I can give you.”

“You are not going to die in France.” Somehow, she looked up at him, fighting tears.

“I am sorry,” he said.

She felt her heart turn over with dread. “How much time do we have?”

His grasp on her shoulders tightened. “A few days.”

They had been living in the moment for weeks. Julianne went into his arms and he embraced her. Somehow, she must stay in the moment now, for the little time they had left.

CHAPTER SIX

J
ULIANNE
LAY
IN
Charles’s arms, refusing to move away. He held her tightly as the pale dawn crept into the bedchamber.

She fought the tears seeping out of her closed eyes. She was trying not to think about his leaving in a few days, but it was impossible after the conversation they’d had last night. He kissed her neck, her shoulder. “You had better go.”

She didn’t move. “We should make the most of this day. Let’s picnic in the cove.”

He smiled. “I can hardly object. But, Julianne, discovery at this point is as dangerous as at any other time.”

He was right, except she was so acutely aware of their time running out. He was leaving her, and he meant to sever all contact. She knew she would find a way to write to him, whether he wished it or not. But even worse, he could die.

She turned and kissed him, before sliding from the bed. As she put on her nightgown, she wished she could see some sign of anguish on his face, but his expression was so controlled, so contained. Once, she had admired his stoic nature. Now, she wanted a sign from him—an outburst! Yet she knew him so well now. He would never allow himself an emotional outpouring of any kind.

“I will see you at breakfast,” he said.

At the door, she faltered. She did not want to question his feelings for her, but doubt nagged at her.
If he loved her, could he walk away like this?

He was a hero. He was going to war. Of course he could walk away. It was a matter of patriotism.

She hurried from his room, reminding herself that she must find her composure and enjoy the time they had left. Every minute was precious now.

“Where have you been?” Amelia asked sharply.

Julianne froze on the threshold of the chamber they shared. Amelia was fully dressed, which meant she had been up for some time, and she was clearly waiting for her. Her sister’s expression was tense and unhappy, and Julianne also thought it was accusing.

She had been discovered.

“Julianne? I have been up for a half an hour. I looked for you in the library. Where have you been?”

“I have been ill,” she said quickly, her pulse accelerating. She hated lying to her sister. “I have been sick for most of the night… It must have been something I ate.” She held her belly and stared breathlessly at her sister. It crossed her mind if she claimed she was too sick, she would not be able to see Charles at breakfast—Amelia wouldn’t let her go.

Amelia stared, her gaze searching. “Perhaps you had better go back to bed,” she finally said.

“I think the sickness has passed,” she said. “I’m going to get dressed and come downstairs.”

Amelia picked up her shawl, wrapped it around Julianne’s shoulders, and left the room they shared without saying another word.

D
OMINIC
HAD
THE
HOUSE
to himself. Amelia had taken Mrs. Greystone out for a drive, but not before sending Julianne to the village of St. Just on an errand. Julianne had promised him she would be back within two hours, in time to tryst that afternoon in the cove.

He had nothing to do but read. He had already gone through the entire house on several occasions, and his most interesting discovery remained Jack’s charts. He had already ascertained that the Xs on those charts were caves. He’d discovered several on another occasion, earlier in the week, when left to his own devices. Two of the caves had contained smuggled cases of brandy.

Yesterday, he had checked out the horses in the barn. Neither the gelding nor the mare stabled within was young or fit enough to make the journey to London. When he left, he would take the gelding to St. Just, and get a better mount from his friend’s extensive stables. That way, he could have the horse returned to the Greystone family. Julianne, of course, would think he had disembarked for France.

He decided to admit it—he would miss the times they had shared.

She had asked him to stay a few more days. He had intended to refuse. He had healed completely. If not for her, he would be entirely bored in the countryside. In fact, he looked forward to a round of clandestine meetings in London with men in the know, like Warlock and Windham. He also looked forward to the finer things in life which did not exist for him in France—extravagant restaurants and hotel bars, lavish meals and elegant wines, his custom-made clothing, and of course, the luxurious accommodations of his Mayfair home.

Home. He could barely wait. He hadn’t been home in a year and a half.

But he hadn’t refused her. He had meant to, but instead, the words that had come out of his mouth were
Yes, I will stay a few more days.

There were many rules to espionage. They were all rules of survival, and most he had learned the hard way, through narrow escapes with death. Some rules had been taught to him by Warlock. The most basic was to remain unattached. Attachments made one vulnerable.

And he knew that firsthand. When Catherine and Nadine had been in France, out of all communication with him, he had been near panic. He was amazed that he had successfully located his mother and gotten her out of the country, considering his state of mind.

He had become somewhat attached to Julianne. He looked forward to the times they spent together. He certainly looked forward to making love to her. But he hoped, very much, that his attachment was due more to the relief she provided him than any genuine affection on his part.

But it didn’t matter, because when he left, he would sever all ties, and it would be over. And even though he had told her he would not allow her to wait for him, maybe, when the war was over, if he was alive, he would call on her, just to make sure she had survived the affair and that she was married with children.

Dominic opened the terrace doors and for one moment stared out at the sight of the Atlantic Ocean, stretching away as far as the eye could see. It was a sunny but hazy day, making the ocean that dull shade of monotonous gray that he was now accustomed to. It was impossible to decide where the sea and sky met.

Some might consider the view majestic; he found it unbearably bleak.

Dominic poured himself a glass of brandy—Greystone kept a very fine French brandy, perhaps the best he’d ever had—and sat down to read from a new publication, which he happened to know was government sponsored,
The British Sun.
He had just become engrossed in an article about the successes of the Association for Preserving Liberty and Property Against Republicans and Levelers—pure Tory propaganda—when he heard the front door slam.

He had the library door wide open, and he glanced up, expecting to see Julianne, even if only an hour had passed since she had left. But before anyone emerged into his field of vision, he heard brisk, booted footsteps. Dominic stood, alarmed, his gaze now trained on the part of the front hall that he could see. He was acutely aware of the gun closet, half a room away. There was a dagger in the desk near that closet, but even as he contemplated quickly crossing the room and taking up the dagger, he realized that only Lucas or Jack Greystone would walk into the house without knocking.

The footsteps approached. A tall, broad-shouldered man with golden hair and cool gray eyes, in a frock coat, breeches and boots, appeared in the library doorway. He locked his stare on Dominic as he pulled off his leather gloves. He then looked beyond Dominic, scanning the rest of the room, before returning to him. “I see that you have discovered my brandy, Paget,” he said. “Lucas Greystone, my lord.”

Dominic’s alarm was instantaneous. How would her brother know the truth about his identity? “I believe you have made a mistake,
monsieur,
” he said smoothly in his heavily accented English.

“You can give up the cover,” Lucas said flatly, closing the door behind them. “I take it no one is home?”

Dominic dropped the accent. “No one is home.”

“Good.” His smile was flitting, and without mirth. He was, Dom saw, a cool, controlled man. “Sebastian sent me to France to retrieve you last month, and he has sent me to Greystone to retrieve you now. His exact words were “You have been on holiday long enough.” You are sorely wanted at the War Office, my lord.”

Some tension abated, but not all of it. He smiled, for that most definitely sounded like Warlock. But if Sebastian Warlock had sent Lucas Greystone to France to rescue him, then Juliann’s brother was hardly the usual country gentleman. “Good to meet you, Greystone. And I am glad to replace the brandy. I have been enjoying it for about a week.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Lucas said, coming forward. He extended his hand and Dom took it. “I hear you have rather charmed Julianne.”

Amelia had written to him, Dom thought. Amelia had not approved of all the time Julianne had been spending with him. He did not change his expression, and he could not tell what the other man was thinking.

“When I first awoke from the fever, I did not recall anything after being shot in Nantes,” Dom said carefully. “I did not remember being brought here, nor did I know whether I was in France or England. Your sister was speaking in French to me, but I knew she was English, so my confusion was even greater. The truth is that she had heard me shouting in my delirium and she jumped to the assumption that I was an officer in the French army.”

Lucas’s eyes widened. “Ah, and now I see.” He smiled slightly. “My radical little sister must have been thrilled to think you a French officer. You instantly became a hero in her eyes.”

How well he knew his sister, Dom thought. “She was very thrilled. I also saw that she was writing a letter to the Jacobins in Paris, and I quickly concluded that she was a Jacobin sympathizer. A few questions confirmed that. And while it became clear that I was in Cornwall, I thought that I was in a nest of Jacobins. So I played along. Once I was into the alias, I obviously could not shed it without her realizing what I was doing in France. I did very little to charm her. She was charmed by the mere notion that I was an officer in the French army. And she still believes me to be Charles Maurice.”

Lucas walked over to the magnificent carved sideboard and poured his own brandy. “And Amelia believes it, as well.”

“She has been in correspondence with you.”

“Of course she has.” Lucas sipped. “When I left you here, my instructions were precise. I wanted to know the moment you were out of all danger and on the way to recovery.”

“I believe I began recovering a week after I was first brought here. And I have been here for three weeks.”

“It has been three and a half weeks,” Lucas corrected, watching him as he sipped. “Amelia felt concerned enough to write me a few days ago. As it happened, Sebastian had just ordered me to return and fetch you.”

Dom took a sip of the brandy and had to admit he still could not read the other man. He set his glass down and sat on the sofa, crossing his legs. He preferred not to discuss Amelia’s concerns. “Tell me how I got here, precisely.”

Lucas started. Dominic’s tone had been one of command; he meant to remind the other man who was the one in authority. Lucas settled his hip against the sideboard. “I was given orders on July 1, just after dawn, to make haste to Brest to pick up a wounded man and convey him directly to Sebastian. I was in London. I recruited Jack, who happened to be in town, carousing. No one is as adept at avoiding the navy, any navy, as he is. Sebastian arranged for a small gunship and a crew. We left that night and arrived in Brest the evening of the first. We had been given very precise directions—we were looking for a beacon fire five kilometers south of the main harbor. It was easy to find. You, my friend, were more dead than alive, and we decided that the sooner we got you to dry land, the better. And so we brought you to Greystone, not London.” He added drily, “Sebastian was not pleased. I did explain that he would have been even less pleased if we brought a corpse to London.”

The Greystone brothers had defied the French navy and the French army to rescue him, not to mention any gendarmes, and he had repaid them by seducing their sister, Dominic thought. He was a good judge of character and knew this man would try to kill him if he ever learned of the affair. It was certainly unfair. But he had learned long ago that life was unjust, and filled with surprising twists and turns that no one wanted. After all, he also owed Julianne, and he had repaid her with a seduction.

The now-familiar guilt returned. “I owe you, Greystone, and your brother, as well. I intend to repay you—and the entire family.” He would settle a generous payment upon the family. And if ever a Greystone needed a word from him, or a push in high places, they would have it. “I can always be reached in London at my home. When I am not there, the Dowager Countess manages my affairs. I always repay my debts.”

“You don’t owe us anything. I am a patriot, and I was glad to be of help.”

Dom knew he meant it. He watched him, while Lucas paced restlessly, and Dom was certain he was going to return to the subject of his relationship with Julianne. But then he had a comment or two of his own to make. He said flatly, “You need to watch your sister.”

Lucas started.

“For an intellectual woman, her naiveté is shocking. She has no clue what is happening in France, she has no clue as to what war means, and she has glorified the revolution and the republicans. We are at war and she supports the enemy. No good can come of that.”