Seduction (13 page)

Everything was a lie.

She was consumed with her memories of Charles and all the times they had spent together—sharing meals, reading the newspapers, strolling along the cliffs, making love. His smile flashed, his green gaze turned warm and then it smoldered....

She loved Charles Maurice, and Charles had loved her—she was certain! She wanted him back, desperately!

But Charles Maurice did not exist. Her heroic French army officer was a lie. The month that they had spent together, first as an invalid and nurse, then becoming friends and lovers, was a lie. That man downstairs, that cold-eyed patrician stranger, was an Englishman and a spy!

She had spent weeks in the bed of a British spy!

And in spite of the shock, hurt began, as did the very beginnings of anger.

“Would you care to have a reasonable conversation?”

She froze at the sound of
his
voice. And slowly, Julianne turned.

The Englishman—Paget—stood on the threshold of her bedchamber, his face grim, his gaze intent and searching.

She fought to breathe, trembling wildly. “Get out!”

He came forward. “We are leaving for London very shortly and I wish to have a discussion with you.” He closed the door behind him, then faced her.

Rage blinded her. Julianne strode forward and struck him viciously across the face. The slap sounded like the crack of a whip in the small room.

His cheek turned red, but he did not even flinch. “I probably deserved that.”

“Probably?” she gasped.

“I had hoped to leave with your memories of Charles Maurice intact.”

She tried to strike him again; this time he intercepted the blow, seizing her wrist. “I don’t blame you for wanting to hurt me, Julianne, but slapping me will not solve anything.”

She wrenched free. “You meant to leave without my ever knowing the truth about you?”

“Yes, I did. Julianne, you are a Jacobin, in contact with the Parisians. I have survived for as long as I have by trusting my instincts, and my instinct was to play along with your assumption that I was an officer in the army. Obviously I was afraid you would relay my real identity to my enemies.”

“You lied to me! I nursed you, read to you, made you meals—and you lied! I brought you the news—and leapt into your bed! And all you did was play on my sympathies—and lie!”

He said, “It was too dangerous to reveal myself. Keep your voice down.”

She wanted to strike him again—and then claw out his eyes. But she lowered her voice. “We have been lovers for weeks! At any time, before, during or after making love, you could have told me the truth!”

“Actually, I could not.”

“Oh, God! All those smiles, all those shared looks, the tenderness and affection—it was all lies.”

He hesitated. “I am very fond of you.”

She hit him again and he let her. Then she backed away, finally crying. “I fell in love with you!”

“You fell in love with the man you wanted me to be.”

“I fell in love with the man you claimed to be—the man you pretended to be! And that suited you, didn’t it?” Horror consumed her now as she realized how she had played into his hands. “Oh, you meant to seduce me, you meant for me to love you! You ruthless, unfeeling, lying bastard! Get out! Get away from me! Go back to France! I hope you die there!” She wept.

He flinched.

When he didn’t move or speak, she finally brought the tears under control, turning to find a handkerchief in the pocket of another dress hanging on a wall peg. When she turned, he said quietly, “I never meant to hurt you. I meant only to protect myself. Maybe, one day, when you are calmer, you will understand why I acted as I did.”

“I will never understand.”

“I will be in London for several weeks, if you need me.”

She choked. “You disgust me. I would never turn to you for anything.”

“You need only send word to me at my Mayfair home. Ask for Bedford.”

Her addled wits tried to comprehend this. His name was Paget—who was Bedford?

“Julianne. You saved my life. I know you will not be receptive to anything I say today, but I am very grateful and I am in your debt.”

“If I had known that you were a spy, I’d have let you die.”

“We both know you do not mean that.”

The tears arose again, but she fought them.

“I have to go. Your brother is outside with a hired coach. I am very sorry it had to end this way.”

He was leaving.
And strangely, her heart suddenly shrieked in protest. Julianne hugged herself, ignoring the sudden dismay. “Good riddance.”

He stood there, his gaze on her face, as if there were more that he wished to say.

And Julianne suddenly wished that Charles would come forward, take her in his arms, and tell her that he loved her. But Charles did not exist! A stranger would be doing so....

She hated him!

He sighed and walked to the door, but paused there. “There is one more thing. You will forget you have ever heard of me, much less that we were acquainted.”

Hadn’t he wanted to sever all ties? Now, she knew why.

“I have enemies, Julianne, but I am confident you are not one of them.”

Julianne seethed, fists clenched. “Go to hell, where you belong.” And then, “Charles was a hero! You, Paget? You are a coward!”

His expression unreadable, he turned and left.

CHAPTER SEVEN

J
ULIANNE
FALTERED
AS
SHE
was passing the guest chamber. Amelia had left the door open after changing the bed. She stared into the empty room, stricken.

Three days had passed since the Englishman had left Greystone, and the shock was gone. In its place was a terrific, raw hurt.

She stared into the room that had been Charles’s for almost an entire month. She fought not to allow a single memory to come to mind. She kept seeing his dashing dark looks, his intent green eyes. She had loved him so deeply, so completely, but she was a fool—she had loved someone who did not exist.

Abruptly, she shut the door. She could not have a broken heart. It was impossible. Being heartbroken was only possible if Charles had truly existed.

Charles Maurice had been an alias. His real name was Dominic Paget.

She shivered. How could she have been so blind? Tom had become suspicious instantly. Hadn’t she wondered time and time again about his tone of voice, his bearing, his eloquence, his education?

But he had always had an explanation, and she had eagerly soaked up his every word.

She trembled. How long would she hurt this way? Paget had held her in his arms, looking at her with smoldering heat while bringing her to the heights of passion; he had held her hand, smiled tenderly at her and gazed on her with warmth and affection. And it had all been lies.

Maybe she would feel better if, at least, that damned Tory spy had loved her, instead of using her for his own ends.

And did he really expect her to forget who he was?

Julianne grimly faced the stairs, aware that she could have her revenge if she really wanted it. Dominic Paget was a spy. How her Parisian friends would love to receive such information.

She faced the stairs, hearing Amelia and their mother in the parlor, struggling for composure. She had told Amelia the bare facts about Dominic Paget, but she had desperately tried to hide her feelings from her sister. She wanted to cry herself to sleep at night, but she refrained. She had allowed herself the luxury of tears only when Amelia was gone and she was alone in the house.

She was also grateful that Lucas was gone, otherwise he might notice her bleak mood—her grief—as well. Not that she owed him anything now. He could interview her endlessly and she would maintain a stony silence! She was furious with him for his failure to alert her to the truth about Paget from the start. But as angry as she was, she was worried, too. Lucas was obviously involved in the war somehow, and she didn’t like it. As a family, they could not survive without him. And she loved him in spite of his deception.

Julianne went downstairs. She noticed for the first time that there was a fine drizzle outside. How perfect, she thought, for the day was as gloomy as she felt.

Was he in London now?

Thinking of him that way made her furious, with herself! What was wrong with her? If he was in London, he was at the War Office, giving intelligence to the war secretary!

Amelia stepped out of the parlor, holding a finger to her lips. “Momma has just fallen asleep.”

Julianne forced a smile. “It is the perfect day for an afternoon nap.”

“It isn’t yet noon, Julianne.”

Julianne felt her smile fade. Amelia took her hand. “Help me prepare lunch.”

Julianne allowed herself to be led into the kitchen, suddenly thinking of carrying Charles his meals on a tray. Pain stabbed through her heart and she was angry with herself again.

In the kitchen, Amelia handed her a bowl of string beans to wash and clean. Julianne moved over to the sink. As she filled the bowl with water, Amelia said, “You seem better rested today.”

Julianne supposed she had slept a few hours last night. “Yes.”

“What will you do this afternoon?”

“Read, I suppose.”

“Why don’t you call on Tom?”

Julianne drained the bowl of beans. She turned and looked at Amelia. She was going to have to face Tom sooner or later. In a way, she was eager to rush to tell him what had happened. When he heard about Paget, he would be outraged. He would also write Paris immediately.

But that made her hesitate. On the other hand, this was
war.

Amelia said softly, “I think it would do you good to have one of your radical discussions.”

She had shared so many political discussions with Paget. And now she knew why he feared the mobs and accused the Jacobins of inciting violence—why he had regretted the execution of the King, the purging of the National Assembly—why he seemed to mourn the flood of émigrés to Britain. He had been
pretending
to support the revolution. He was a
royalist.

“Julianne, when will we talk about what happened?” Amelia came over to her, her gaze kind but worried.

“There is nothing to talk about. I believed him a hero. But Charles Maurice was an alias.” She sounded so calm!

Amelia seized her hands. “I know how infatuated with him you were. I know how crushed you are now! Let me help you, dear.”

She trembled. “I am fine, Amelia. Truly. I must simply come to grips with the truth.”

“How can you be fine? You nursed him to health, you became close friends and you were his constant companion. You saved his life, and his repayment was a terrible deception. He betrayed us both, Julianne, but I didn’t care for him as you did. I am angry—but I can only imagine how you feel.”

“I despise him.”

Amelia nodded. “In time, you will forget.”

He had ordered her to forget he had ever existed, or that they had ever been “acquainted.” Suddenly Julianne felt sick.

He was the coldest, most unfeeling human being she had ever met. How could he have deceived her as he had? How could he have walked away, with no feeling, no heartbreak? He deserved whatever fate the war handed him!

Amelia wrapped her in an embrace.

“I fell in love with him,” Julianne confessed in a whisper. “I loved him so! This hurts so much. And the worst part is, I keep wondering where he is now—and if he cared at all—if that damned Tory cared!”

“I am sure he cared—you were friends—and you did save his life. But you will forget him, Julianne.” Yet her words somehow sounded like a question, and doubt laced her tone.

“How can I ever forget what he has done? Amelia, I saw his lack of expression—his lack of emotion.” She was a fool to hope that he had cared, she thought with another huge pang. He couldn’t have deceived her as he had if he had cared at all.

Amelia stared, her gaze searching. “Julianne, the morning you were ill—when I asked you where you had been.” She stopped. “Were you really ill?”

Julianne turned away.

Amelia seized her arm. “Please tell me you weren’t with him.”

Julianne trembled, intending to deny it, but she met her sister’s eyes and desperately needed her love, her kindness, her support. She heard herself say, “I was with him, Amelia.”

“Oh, God!”

Julianne turned and saw that her sister was as white as a ghost. “It really doesn’t matter now.”

“It matters!” Amelia cried, suddenly turning red with anger.

“You are to tell no one!” Julianne realized the jeopardy her confession had placed her in. “Amelia!”

“He wasn’t some commoner. He is a gentleman and a man of honor!” Her sister was horrified.

Julianne wanted to laugh. She could not. “I am sorry, he might be a nobleman, but obviously he is not a man of honor.”

Amelia whispered, “Bedford should be held to a higher standard.”

Julianne was confused. “He mentioned something about my asking for Bedford if I ever needed him.” The only Bedford she knew of was an earl, a very high-ranking peer. “Please don’t tell me he is related to the earl of Bedford, for I might truly die.”

Amelia said softly, “He
is
the earl of Bedford.”

T
OM
LOOKED
UP
from the desk in his High Street office, surprised. Then his surprise became concern. “Julianne?”

She had left Amelia standing in the kitchen, for the moment she had learned that Dominic Paget was the earl of Bedford, anger had consumed her. She had thought of nothing but the extent of his deception for the past hour. “I have news,” she said harshly, trembling.

Tom was on his feet and sliding on his handsomely embroidered olive-green coat. He quickly came toward her. “You seem very distraught. I am very afraid to ask what has happened.”

She somehow smiled tightly at him, but inwardly, she was seething. Dominic Paget had played her for a fool, claiming to be an officer in the republican army, when he was not just any noble but an earl, seated in Britain’s House of Lords! Everyone knew how wealthy Bedford was. Worse, Bedford was a renowned Tory! Pitt offered him the ministry of the Exchequer in a previous year. “A lot has happened in the past few days.” She inhaled, meeting his worried gaze.

He was clearly alarmed. “You are frighteningly pale. You should sit. I can make tea.”

“You are my friend and I need you, Tom.”

“What happened?”

She shook her head. “You were right about Maurice. He was pretending to be an officer in the French army. He is actually…Bedford.” She waited for a reaction, the need to hurt Paget now savage.

Tom’s eyes widened. He was stunned. “Wait a moment. The earl of Bedford is a British agent?”

Suddenly Julianne felt a tingling of dismay, followed by the slightest sense of shame.
She had just unmasked Paget.
Tom was no fool and he had instantly understood the implications of his deception. Did she really want to destroy Bedford? Did she really want him to return to France and be uncovered—and guillotined? So many memories flooded her that she could not speak—and in every one, she was in Paget’s arms.

“That entire time—a month—you were nursing the earl of Bedford, not some common soldier?” Tom was incredulous.

When she did not answer—she could not—he cried, “God! I knew something was wrong. I could smell the deceit all over him!”

Julianne shoved the painful memories away, hugging herself. Paget was a liar. He had used her miserably. He did not deserve any concern on her part. He would get what he deserved. “You were right and I was wrong. I am a fool.”

Tom clasped her shoulder. “Julianne, you are the most intelligent woman I know. This is not your fault. It is his fault. He is a good-looking, charming man—and he knows it. Where is he now?”

She hesitated, reluctant to say any more. She would never tell Tom that Lucas was also involved in the war against France, and that he had taken Paget back to London. But should she tell Tom that Paget had returned to London? “He left.” She suddenly wanted to hedge. What was wrong with her? Didn’t she want Paget brought to the justice he deserved?

I will be in London for several weeks, if you need me.

I am very fond of you.

She wanted to scream aloud,
Liar!
Instead, she stared at Tom.

“I am going to write Marcel immediately,” Tom decided. He started for his desk, and then whirled. “Julianne, did he say where he was going? Did he return to France?”

The hesitation within her grew. She was confused. Did she truly want him to die?

“Julianne?”

If she told Tom that Paget had gone to London, would he bother to write to the club in Paris? Wouldn’t it be better to wait and carefully decide what to do next, when she was calmer? “He went to London, I think. But he will never use the same alias if he does go back.”

Tom stared at her, studying her. “If he is in London, we can find out easily enough. I’m sure half the town knows where his residence is.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked, filled with unease.

“Locate him, if I can. And of course, relay the information to Marcel.”

She became terribly uncertain—and frightened. She wished she hadn’t told Tom about Paget. She had never believed in vengeance, but she was simply so hurt. A course of vengeance was a decision that should be made carefully—not in a fit of anger. “What will they do? Will they…send an assassin?” She trembled.

“I doubt that. But they probably have agents in town, and they will watch him closely. That is what I would do, at least, and I would be prepared to continue the surveillance once he returns to France.” He grinned. “This information is a godsend!”

Julianne felt like crying. She turned away so Tom would not see.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly, from behind.

If she wasn’t careful, she’d go into his arms. She fought to recover some calm. “Yes.”

He studied her. “What happened, exactly? How did you uncover him? He certainly did not volunteer a confession.”

She had put Paget in jeopardy; she would never endanger Lucas. “I overheard him speaking with our stable boy—in perfect English,” she lied. “I was so upset that I confronted him and he could not deny the truth.”

“But how did you ever learn he was Bedford?” Tom demanded instantly.