Seduction (14 page)

Julianne froze. And she recalled their last conversation. “He admitted it,” she said, trembling. “He admitted it and then ordered me to keep his secret.”

Tom accepted that and said, “Do you know how long he was in France, spying for Pitt?”

“No.” She walked over to one of the chairs in front of his desk and slumped down in it. She realized she was exhausted. But then, she had told Amelia that they were lovers, and now, she had told Tom that Bedford was an agent.

Tom came over to the desk and lay his hand on her shoulder. She smiled up at him, gratefully. “I can’t answer any more questions, not today.”

“You were very fond of him,” he said slowly. “I have been so carried away with the fact that he is an agent that I have overlooked how you must be feeling.”

“Please, don’t. I am fine.”

“How can you be fine? It is one thing to betray a cause—it is another to betray a person.”

“I am angry…and hurt. I thought we were friends. But I will recover.”

Tom was silent. He finally said, very carefully, “You didn’t look at him as if he were a mere friend. You looked at him as if he were the prince of all your dreams.”

She jerked.

“You fell for him, didn’t you?”

Julianne hugged herself, tears arising. “Yes.”

“Damn him,” Tom said savagely. “I knew it! Well, I will make sure Bedford gets what he deserves and he will rue the day he revealed himself to you.”

Julianne leapt up. “Maybe we shouldn’t interfere. Maybe we should leave these war games to the spies and agents who know how to play them!”

Tom was incredulous. “Surely you wish for him to meet his just deserts?”

“I don’t know what I want!” Julianne cried.

D
OMINIC
SMILED
TO
HIMSELF
as they passed the tall, Gothic spires of Westminster Abbey, inhaling the rather noxious odors of London in the summertime. “God, I have missed the city.”

Lucas held a handkerchief over his nose. “A year and a half is a very long time.”

The coach they shared continued on, the ride rather jarring and bumpy. Dominic had not discussed his activities in France with Lucas. But they had been traveling for two entire days, stopping only to change horses and drivers and partake of a quick meal, and they had come to know one another rather well. They had spoken of the war, the revolution and the latest news at home. Greystone knew every pertinent detail about the wars on the Continent and quite a few details about the state of French politics. It had become very clear to Dominic that Lucas Greystone was involved in the war effort, although how, he did not know, did not ask, and Lucas did not say. He was clearly as conservative as Dominic was, and dead set against the revolution reaching the shores of Britain. Dominic liked him, but that made him somewhat uncomfortable—he felt as if he had betrayed Greystone by carrying on with his sister.

They had not discussed Julianne. Aware that the journey to London would take them two or three days, depending upon both the coaches they acquired and the weather, Dominic had been careful to keep their conversation impersonal.

Their coach turned north onto Parliament Street, and Dominic glanced briefly at the river, which was filled with ferries and barges of all shapes and sizes, the traffic heavy, as it always was. Dominic’s last confrontation with Julianne bothered him still. So did the moment she had learned the truth about him and his deception. He would never forget her absolute disbelief, nor would he forget her justifiable anger. He was very sorry the affair had ended as it had; he was even sorrier that she had ever learned that her hero did not exist.

A few minutes later they arrived at the Admiralty, and were climbing out of the coach. Lucas advised the driver to wait.

Dominic was silent as they walked up the broad, pale stone steps and crossed the spacious lobby. Naval officers and diplomats, peers and government officials, were coming and going.

“Bedford!”

Dominic turned to find the earl of St. Just crossing the lobby. Grenville was a tall, dark-haired man with a brooding air about him that made many accuse him of being aloof, while others took it for arrogance. He was very well dressed in a dark brown velvet coat, lace cuffs, pale breeches and white stockings. Characteristically, he did not wear a wig, his dark hair pulled back into a queue. Dominic let Greystone go on to the reception as St. Just halted, unsmiling. “I wondered when I’d see you again. Or even if I would.” He clasped Dom’s shoulder. “Glad that you are back, Bedford.”

Dominic smiled. “You are in town—in late July? I can only imagine why.” He was fairly certain that, in spite of having two small children, Grenville spent most of his time on the Continent—he was fluent in several languages. Like Dominic, he adamantly opposed the French revolution.

“We will have to catch a drink together, and share our secrets,” St. Just said, lifting his brows as he took in his appearance. “You need a new tailor, my friend.”

“What I need is my own closet. It is a long story. One I might think to share.”

“I will only be in town a few more days.” St. Just’s smile faded.

Dominic felt his own smile fade. “I will not be here very long, myself.”

They shared a look and St. Just walked off. Dom turned and saw Greystone at the reception, speaking with a pale, lanky clerk with pale blond hair. He strode toward them, the clerk coming forward. “My lord, I am Edmund Duke, the secretary’s assistant. He is delighted that you are here. It is my pleasure to escort you to him.”

Dominic shook the young man’s hand. “Duke.”

“Mr. Greystone? Secretary Windham would like to see you, as well.” Duke gestured that they should follow him inside the Admiralty.

They left the lobby. Inside, numerous offices were occupied, mostly by naval officers and clerks. Following Duke, Dom nodded at two admirals he happened to know. He had never met Windham personally, and he was curious. Windham’s office was at the far end of the corridor, the two teakwood doors wide open.

Duke knocked politely on the open door.

Dominic saw past him into a very spacious room. One wall of windows looked out onto Whitehall, a luxurious seating area before it. A vast desk was at the chamber’s other end, with several chairs before it. One wall contained bookcases. A large table was against the last wall, with several chairs, and piles of paperwork. Clearly numerous clerks assisting Windham worked there.

Two men stood up, having been seated on the sofa. Dom was not surprised to see Sebastian Warlock, nor was he surprised to see Edmund Burke. Both men were his mentors, even if no one knew it except for the parties involved.

Windham was a heavyset fellow in a green velvet coat, his wig white and powdered. He came forward, smiling, but the smile never reached his eyes. “Bedford, at last. It is a pleasure.”

Dominic shook the war secretary’s hand. “The honor is mine, sir.”

Windham turned and smiled at Lucas. “Greystone.”

“Sir.”

So they already knew one another, Dominic thought.

“I believe you know Warlock and Burke.”

Dom nodded. “Yes, I do.”

Sebastian came forward. He was a tall, dark-haired man, exceedingly good-looking, with piercing eyes that never missed a trick. “And have you thoroughly enjoyed the sandy beaches of Cornwall? You seem to have caught a bit of sun.”

“A well-deserved reward, don’t you think?”

“Actually, I do.” He extended his hand and Dom took it, as their gazes locked. He instantly knew Sebastian had dozens of questions, and that he would wish to speak to him privately when Windham was done with them.

Burke was not as aloof. He embraced Dom as he would a brother or a son. “I am glad to see you so well, Dom.” He slapped his back now, once. “I am glad you are safe and sound, and back.”

Dom glanced at Lucas. “I owe Greystone and his entire family. Otherwise, I would not be standing here right now.”

“Edmund, pour everyone a scotch. My best, if you please,” Windham said. “There is some good news for you, Bedford. Jacquelyn defeated an entire division of Biron’s troops on July 17.”

He felt his entire body flood with relief. “Thank God. We were routed at the end of June, outside Nantes. We were outnumbered and outgunned.”

“We know,” Burke said.

Dom faced the war secretary. “Sir, we are in dire need of guns, powder, cannon, other munitions, not to mention bread and other foods. And we need surgeons. We have no way of caring for the wounded, not if we suffer another rout as we did then.” He accepted a glass of scotch from Duke.

Windham turned. “Thank you, Edmund.”

The assistant backed out of the room, closing both doors.

Windham said, “We are very aware of your needs. Jacquelyn has sent us several missives. But we have logistical problems.”

Surely, they would not deny aid to the rebels in the Loire Valley, Dom thought, disbelieving. “Sir, I am here to ask you for supplies, and to arrange a rendezvous between your convoy and Jacquelyn. La Vendée must be supported if you wish to defeat the French republicans.”

Burke clasped his shoulder. “Even as we now speak, Toulon, Lyon and Marseilles are in our hands. Bordeaux is in the throes of a counter insurgency. There are pockets of rebellion in Brittany, as well.”

Dom started. “That is damned good news.” He glanced at Sebastian. “Is the road to Paris still open?” If the Allies took Paris, the French republicans would be crushed. They could not withstand such a defeat.

Windham said, “Yes, it is. General Kellerman is marching on Lyon with eight thousand troops but we believe he faces fifteen or twenty thousand rabidly anti-republican citizens. The French have sent a very young, inexperienced army officer to take Toulon, a man by the name of Napoleon Bonaparte. He will never succeed. And Coburg is consolidating the Coalition’s positions in Flanders, the Rhine and the Pyrennees. The war is going well.”

Dom wet his lips. Coburg was not marching on Paris? “What about our supplies, sir?”

“There are French Islands in the West Indies that interest us. Pitt has sent several divisions to the Caribbean to take them,” Windham said. “We are damned short of men, ships and supplies.”

Dom wanted to curse. “Is that why Coburg is sitting on his ass along the front lines?”

“Coburg believes it vital to secure our position,” Windham said, disapproval in his tone.

“Will the Duke of York march on Paris?” Dominic asked, in growing disbelief.

“He is joining Coburg. Eventually, in a month or so, they will march on Paris.”

“In a month or two,” Dom muttered. His frustration made him drain his scotch. How could such an opportunity be missed? “The road to Paris has been open since April, when Dumouriez defected, but we will not march on the city and take it? The La Vendée rebels need troops, guns and bread, but those supplies are going to the West Indies?”

“We can resupply La Vendée in the fall,” Windham said, “but not sooner.”

“I doubt we can wait that long!” Dom cried. “I came to London to beg for aid, while we remain viable enough to fight the French. Sir, I am begging you now. Divert the aid to us, immediately.”

“You cannot allow the Loire Valley to fall,” Sebastian said softly.

Windham said firmly, “We will send a convoy in the fall, and I will keep you apprised of the situation.”

Dominic knew that it would be a miracle if Jacquelyn and his men survived the summer. But there was no persuading Windham. “Sir, if I may?”

The war secretary nodded.

“The war news sounds promising—even certain, for us. But I promise you, victory is not certain in France.” He paused. “France is in anarchy. There are chronic food shortages everywhere. Mobs control the street, easily incited by the Jacobins and the National Assembly. The Commune now links the street with the countryside, and it is run by the city’s most radical elements. The Jacobins have formed a new Central Revolutionary Council to raise armed bands throughout the country, to instill fear in everyone, should anyone think to support an insurgency! France is consumed with two elements—fear and passion. Even those on the side of the revolution fear being labeled an enemy of the republic. The passion of the radicals to spread their world of equality and liberty—or mayhem and death—is like nothing I have ever seen. That passion infuses the officers and soldiers of the French army. You believe the French army a ragged group of conscripts? Oh, they are ragged, indeed—and they are rabidly determined to destroy the Powers of Europe, to free the common man there from tyranny and injustice, and to see the revolution in France to its inglorious end—a republic without elites, without nobility, without prosperity. A republic of the people, and for the people, where no one can have anything that someone else doesn’t have.” Dom halted. “Those conscripts will gladly die for
La Liberté!
”

Dom realized he was trembling. A grim silence followed his diatribe. It was Greystone who handed him another drink. Dom took a gulp of whiskey, and said, “This will not be a short war.”

Windham said grimly, “I hope you are wrong.” Then, “I want a letter from you, Bedford. Detail your needs. And I want a second letter, telling me in writing what you have just told me in person. I have a meeting, so I am afraid this concludes our affairs for today. Bedford, thank you. And thank you, as well, Greystone.”