Conveniently Wed to a Spy
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Helen Dickson
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Chapter One
Moving swiftly through the darkness, the wagon carrying Delphine and Jacques, her accomplice, made its way along the narrow, winding alleyways of Paris towards the Conciergerie on the riverside. The surrounding streets were relatively empty just now, but come tomorrow the tumbrils would roll along these same streets carrying their terror-filled passengers to their deaths in the Place de la Révolution.
Dark clouds had been gathering all day. There had been a stillness in the air for the past hour—the calm before the storm. It was the kind of eerie stillness, of quietness, that made one imagine that anything could happen. There was a rumbling in the distance and forked lightning shot across the sky. Several drops of rain fell. Delphine pulled her hood further over her head as the clouds burst. By the time they crossed the river the rain was hitting the ground with such force it bounced up again, which could prove to be a blessing by keeping the citizens of Paris indoors.
Since her arrival in Paris, the stress of the situation pressed down upon Delphine. It was not the place to be in this brutal time of upheaval and turmoil, brought about by the people who were living with intolerable taxes and starvation. Since the Bastille had been pulled down by the mob in eighty-nine, it was as if France was caught in the jaws of a relentless and terrible machine which seemed impossible to stop. The things she had seen in the city since the revolution had begun had brought her to the conclusion that the overthrow of the established order was not a thing to be undertaken lightly.
She recognised that she had precious little time for working out strategies and that she must keep her wits about her. In theory what she had to do was so simple—to collect an English spy from the Conciergerie, take him to the safe house and leave for the coastal town of Granville to the west the following day. This would be easy to accomplish were it not for the National Guard patrolling the streets on the lookout for suspicious-looking citizens and those on the well-guarded gates leading out of the city through which commoners and taxable goods must pass.
Halting close to the prison walls, without a word, for they both knew what they had to do, Delphine climbed down from the cart and made her way to the entrance, confident in the knowledge that should things go awry Jacques, forever watchful, would spring to her aid. Her rain-soaked cloak hung in heavy woollen folds. She breathed in the damp air. How she had dreaded coming here.
This task wasn’t like the others, when she had secreted families out of France to escape the terror. This time she had been given the task of having a man smuggled out of the Conciergerie, the most infamous prison in Paris, where anyone who was considered an enemy of the Republic was incarcerated. In these days of terror, the Conciergerie was filled with aristocrats awaiting trial. Her superior, Sir Godfrey Bucklow, had told her the prisoner was well connected and popular at the English court and an intelligence agent. Apart from that she knew nothing about him—nor did she wish to. It was better that way. The less they knew about each other the better.
With a shudder and bent on her purpose, she entered the grim building, the occasional lantern lighting her way. A guard with a bushy black beard and wearing a red cap and the tricolour was slumped in a corner. On seeing Delphine he got up. He was a man who outwardly lived and breathed the revolution, but was not averse to taking a purse of gold coins in exchange for a prisoner. Everything would be in place to move the prisoner—the network controlled from London would have seen to that.
‘Who goes there?’
‘Are you Gaspard Ducat?’
‘I am.’
‘You are expecting me,’ she said in a low voice, speaking perfect French. ‘I have come for the Englishman.’
Without a word, after glancing around to make sure they were alone, the guard nodded her forward. The stench coming from inside the Conciergerie was indescribable and Delphine almost retched. With knowledge of the full horror of this place her heartbeat quickened.
‘Wait here. You have payment?’
‘Yes—when I see the Englishman.’
He looked at her hard. Satisfied that she was the person he had been told to expect, he turned and disappeared into the gloom.
Delphine kept to the shadows. How the guard would explain the disappearance of the Englishman wasn’t her concern, but she had no doubt that before morning his disappearance would have been noted and a hue and cry would ensue. She had half accomplished her part of the task. It was carrying out the rest of it that worried her. They had to get to the safe house. Fortunately it wasn’t far.
After what seemed to Delphine an eternity, the guard returned, a man following close behind. He was not as wretched as Delphine had expected. He was tall, his clothes having seen better days, and through a rent in his shirt beneath his green frock coat his lean, muscled body showed. Above his dark tan boots, his skin-tight breeches were pale grey. His dark hair had not been combed and hung loose about his shoulders.
What struck her immediately was that there was nothing weak about this man. Even in this miserable state he was quite magnificent. Robbed of the trappings of the gentry, the man showed through. As she held his gaze she marvelled at what fascinating eyes he had. They were a brilliant green, or were they the turquoise blue of the Cornish sea in summertime? They stared out of a face pale from long incarceration. They focused on her.
‘God’s teeth!’ he breathed. ‘A woman.’
‘As you see,’ Delphine replied in clipped tones.
Her clear voice had an imperious ring that made the Englishman’s eyebrows arch. His mouth broke out into a lopsided grin. His thick lashes and black brows framed dancing eyes, defiant, despite his long imprisonment which, to anyone else, would have humbled them. An inch-long scar dragged his right eyelid slightly down, giving him an expression of irony. He made a bow.
‘Good evening to you, little lady.’
Taken by surprise by his ill-timed gallantry, her eyes widened. ‘Good evening,’ she replied coolly, in no mood to engage in polite banter.
Gaspard Ducat shook his head, making a tsking sound. ‘A woman trying to smuggle prisoners out of Paris! Will wonders never cease?’
The Englishman grinned at Delphine, a flicker of amused respect glinting in his eyes. ‘A wonder indeed. I thought the very same thing. Have we met?’
‘No, we have not,’ she assured him, irritated by what appeared to be his inability to grasp the seriousness of the situation and his seeming lack of urgency.
‘No, I am certain of it now, for having once made your acquaintance that would be something I should never forget. But that you should do this for a stranger is gratifying and quite remarkable. Are you French?’
‘Half-French. I trust you will not hold that against me. Now please hurry. This is not a tea party. There’s no time to be lost, so keep quiet,’ she ordered sharply, having no wish to indulge further in this conversation with this Englishman. The order shot out, but the smile did not fade from that fascinating face.
‘I am yours to command,’ he said, making the mockery of a bow.
He had a deep voice, warm and encompassing. There was laughter in it and at any other time it would make her laugh, too, but this was not the time.
Producing a purse heavy with gold coin from beneath her cloak, Delphine handed it to the guard. Opening it, he peered inside, removing one of the coins. It gleamed in the fitful light of the lantern and raised a satisfied smile on his lips.
‘The guard will be changing shortly,’ he growled. ‘You will be missed and they will come after you so go, be away with you.’
‘Come along,’ Delphine said to the Englishman. ‘We have to leave here.’ She was conscious of him walking close behind her, his tall frame coiling and snapping with energy. Reaching the cart, she lifted a cloak from the back. ‘Here, cover yourself and get in the back. I wouldn’t like you to catch a chill after we’ve gone to all this trouble to get you out of the Conciergerie.’ She looked at him, thinking his eyes danced for a moment, but the elusive lopsided grin did not reappear.
Throwing the cloak around his shoulders, he hoisted his lean, rangy body up into the back of the cart with an agility Delphine could only wonder at, making himself comfortable on the hay-covered boards. With a need for haste, she climbed up beside Jacques and they left the Conciergerie. Back through the streets they went, eventually disappearing into the network of alleyways in the poor quarter of Paris. A particular stench arose from the gutters to assail her nostrils and touch like icy fingers upon her deepest fears. It was the stench of poverty, the foul, unacceptable smell of humanity at its lowest.
Delphine prayed they would not attract the attention of the National Guard or a suspicious citizen on the lookout for anyone who opposed the Republic. The rain continued to fall, the horse plodding instinctively over the greasy cobbles, slippery with mud and refuse. Turning her head, she looked at the Englishman lying on his back, his face upturned to the rain, as though he welcomed the feel of the cold wetness on his skin. A bolt of lightning flashed, lighting up his features. He was handsome, she thought, his face lean and angular because of the lack of proper nourishment.
She stared at him, utterly taken aback by his open, easy manner when they were in the utmost danger—and worse, by her instant awareness of the powerful masculinity that radiated from him despite his sorry state. She recognised authority when she saw it. Everything about this illustrious Englishman bespoke power, control and command. His devil-may-care attitude had immediately set her teeth on edge. They were to be together for several days and there was no escaping the fact that he posed a threat to her equilibrium. Despite knowing nothing whatsoever about him, she was already beginning to dismiss him as an arrogant member of the English nobility, possibly a rake, who was used to kicking his heels in some of London’s most fashionable houses before seeking an exciting diversion from his humdrum life and deciding to play the spy.
From the back of the wagon Lord Laurence Alexander Beaumont, Fourth Baron Beaumont, opened his eyes and looked up into the dark sky. The feeling of freedom was overwhelming. Emotions were churning within his chest, but he couldn’t relax, not until he was out of Paris for good. Being incarcerated for so long and the feeling of impotence that went with it had, at times, become overwhelming if he started to fantasise about getting out.
He pulled himself up to take stock of his whereabouts. His features were quiet and intent. A sense of purpose and hope filled his heart and mind and was etched in every line of his body. An aura of authority and power seemed to surround him and he possessed a haughty reserve that, despite his earlier easy manner, now set him apart from his young saviour. There was something about his eyes, shadowed with some deep-felt emotion and a mocking cynicism, as though he found the whole world a dubious place to be.
As an agent of the English government, having been caught out in a plot to save King Louis XVI of France, who had gone to the guillotine in January of that year, he had been arrested and condemned by the tribunal. Fully comprehending that nothing could possibly save him from the guillotine but a miracle, he had remained incarcerated inside the Conciergerie to await the day of his execution, where torture and deprivation had almost driven him to the brink of madness.
He had struggled to retain his grip on sanity, sustaining himself by focusing his mind on escaping his tormentors and returning to his own fireside. Throughout the long months of imprisonment, in all his turbulent thoughts, in all the heated workings of his heart and mind, he had stood against resignation and mercifully his hold on life had remained strong. He was impatient to plant his feet on England’s soil once more.
The tavern where they were to spend the night was tucked away in a rundown area of Paris that was rife with all manner of low life roaming the streets and back alleyways that were dark and evil smelling. An iron lamp above the door cast a dim patch of light on to the greasy cobblestones below. Getting down, Jacques took the horse’s bridle.
‘I’ll spend the night in the stable with the horse. I’ll be away first thing.’
A man in his forties and a native of Guernsey, Jacques, who lived with his wife in St Peter Port, was the owner of a fishing boat. The plight of those trying to flee France’s tyranny had touched his heart. It was on this basis that he had offered his services to Sir Godfrey Bucklow, who was a native of Cornwall and worked for the British Intelligence Service. Jacques was a man of few words and during the two years Delphine had worked with him, a peculiar kind of friendship had developed between them. He had family in Paris and was concerned for their safety. It was already arranged that they would part company and she would complete the assignment without him.
‘Thank you, Jacques. I’ll see you before you go. I intend to make an early start with the Englishman. The gates out of Paris will be thronging with people. I’ll see you have some supper sent out.’
‘Good Lord!’ muttered the Englishman, casting a wary eye over the inn’s unappealing façade. ‘What is this place?’
‘Safe—at least I pray that is so tonight. It is not frequented by respectable clientele. A den of thieves is how I would describe it—although since we have nothing of substance to attract them then we should be left alone.’
Shoving open the door to the tavern, Delphine cast a sharp eye round the murky interior. It was a single public room, small and low ceilinged, the walls yellowed with tobacco smoke. Close to a soot-blackened hearth a couple of dubious characters sat huddled at a table, smoking pipes. They eyed the newcomers with suspicion before resuming their conversation. The Englishman’s initial show of gallantry had disappeared as he looked around with a wary, brooding gaze, filling the tavern with his presence. The landlord gave them a hard stare before nodding a half-familiar gesture to Delphine.
‘Two brandies, Maurice—make them large ones. Take one to Jacques and something to eat if you would be so kind.’
‘I will stick to beer,’ the Englishman said. When she shot him a curious glance he smiled thinly. ‘Not having tasted the stuff for nigh on twelve months, until I am safely aboard a vessel heading for England, I will keep a clear head.’
She nodded. ‘As you wish. Make that wine for me, Maurice.’
‘You are familiar with this place, that much is obvious,’ the Englishman murmured, taking in his surroundings.
She looked at him with cold eyes that gave nothing away. ‘Yes. Maurice is to be trusted—for a price. Like the guard at the Conciergerie, his loyalty is easily bought for a full purse. We have an understanding. He won’t betray us.’
‘Where is your accomplice?’
‘Bedded down with the horse,’ she answered, sitting at a table in an alcove. ‘He’s also on the lookout for unwelcome visitors. It’s not often the tavern is bothered by the guard, but we must be ready to move in case that should happen.’
The Englishman joined her, sitting across from her at the stained table and stretching his long legs out in front of him. A deep groove etched itself into his brow and his mouth curved slightly in a one-sided smile that did not reach his eyes. That bright green gaze seemed to see right through her defences and that small scar that dragged on his right eyelid added an illusion of savagery barely held in check.
She sensed his continued amazement along with an underlying resentment that he should owe his freedom to a woman. Clearly this wasn’t what he’d expected. His expression became suddenly thoughtful and he inspected her face as if something puzzled him.
‘Do you always subject people to such close scrutiny when you meet them for the first time?’ Delphine asked directly, irritated by it. ‘I am not used to being looked at like that and find it extremely disagreeable. Is there something wrong with my face that makes you examine it so thoroughly?’
He laughed softly. ‘Forgive my boldness, but when I look at you I think unaccountably of imps and elves and things, and have half a mind to demand whether you have bewitched the guards at the Conciergerie, casting a spell on them in order to procure my release.’
‘I will not argue the point, but I assure you, sir, since you know that British agents here in Paris have plotted to secure your release, it is not my intention to disrupt the workings of the Conciergerie. Quite the opposite, in fact.’
With a look that betrayed mild surprise, he nodded. ‘I’m still not convinced.’ His gaze continued to rest lightly on her face.
They sat in silence, Delphine with her wine and the Englishman with his ale, relishing the drink after so long an abstinence. Delphine took a long drink of her wine, so long that he laughed as she placed the glass on the table.
‘What a beautiful drunkard you are.’
A stinging retort sprang to Delphine’s lips, but she swallowed it. ‘The past few hours have been fraught. Liquor—not that I am in the habit of imbibing too much—will settle my nerves.’
‘Are you not afraid to be in the company of a prisoner of the Conciergerie? Does it not scare you?’
‘No. Should I be?’
He shook his head as the fire crackled and hissed as the landlord stirred its heart back to life before disappearing to the back. ‘You are quite safe with me. You are helping me. Why would I hurt you?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know you. You are just one of Mr Pitt’s agents. They are active all over France. That is all I need to know. All I want to know. It is best that way. You will know me as Sophie and you are travelling as my husband under the name of Claude Blanchard until we part company. Is that understood?’
He nodded. ‘I am grateful to you.’
‘There is no need for gratitude. I have my own reasons for being in Paris. I am looking for something.’
‘For someone, I suspect.’
‘Yes, someone who has become lost in this madness that grips France just now.’
A boy appeared from the kitchen at the back of the room with some unappetising-looking food, which they ate in silence. The two men got up and left.
‘What was it like—inside the Conciergerie?’ she asked when the boy had left.
‘There are so many prisoners. Those who have been tried are held together in a huge common cell, waiting to be taken to the guillotine. The revolutionaries should be proud of themselves, for there, at least, they have succeeded in levelling the classes. The more money one has to pay the guards for luxuries the better the accommodation—even though they may be fodder for the blade the next day.’
‘What good is wealth and luxury in the face of such a dreadful fate—to be rounded up like cattle for the slaughter? I know. I have seen the worst of it,’ she uttered quietly, trying not to think of the shadowy figures that paraded across her mind just now. ‘Were you subjected to interrogation?’
He nodded. ‘In the beginning, before being dumped in an underground hellhole, but I gave no account. I was kept in complete isolation, unable to make contact with the outside world, in a place where a man loses count of the days and where death can strike in many ways. I had plenty of time to think, but I tried not to. When a man loses his freedom, thinking is a dangerous business—apt to drive him mad. Eventually I was taken out and put in a cell with other prisoners.’
Pain and disbelief streaked through Delphine at the thought of what he had been subjected to. ‘I am sorry for the pain and indignities you must have been forced to endure. Anyone who believes that revolution is a justifiable instrument of policy is a fool. It is not something to be achieved in a day. Changes have to be made gradually. To overturn the world is to place the lower class at the top, but they will remain lower class.’
‘That is so. These are troubled and dangerous times in France. The nobility, busy at the elaborate idleness in their grand chateaux or at the Palace of Versailles, in the swim of the gay life of Louis XVI’s artificial paradise, should have seen this coming.’
‘And now the King is dead and a new age has been born—a Republic of Liberty, Equality and Fraternity—and death for those who do not embrace it. I have no doubt Marie Antionette will suffer the same fate as her husband eventually. You were in the Conciergerie for twelve months. Why have they waited so long to take you to trial? Is it because you are English?’
‘Being English makes no difference. English law means nothing here. I work for British Intelligence. What I was doing was highly confidential, therefore I am an enemy of the Republic with information that could be useful to them. When I was arrested I was involved in a plot to rescue the beleaguered King Louis. God alone knows how many foreign spies were loose in France at that time—and now, for that matter. I reckon I’ve had a narrow escape—for which I have you to thank.’
‘I was following orders.’
‘Of course you were, but you didn’t have to. Why do you do it?’
‘For the same reason as you yourself became a spy. I know very little about you, but I have been told that you completed impossible missions for the Intelligence Service before you were caught.’
‘I like to think so. But what is it that drives you to risk life and limb to save others? A noble act, I grant you, but it is a dangerous business—more so for a woman.’
‘Sometimes being a woman can help. To portray oneself as a weak and silly girl, shallow and dim-witted who wouldn’t know anything about anything, can often achieve things a man cannot. I cannot turn a blind eye to what is happening, so I help where I can.’
‘You are under no obligation.’
‘It is what I do—and I am rather good at it.’ The smile she gave him as she turned her head away was not convincing.
‘And I am full of admiration—and grateful,’ he said with grave sincerity. ‘I’m indebted to whatever reasons you had that made you appear at the Conciergerie. You have a mind of your own, I see.’
‘Certainly. I should hardly be here doing what I do if I did not.’
‘Nevertheless, it is a brave life you have chosen, saving aristocrats from the mob.’
‘I don’t discriminate. Jacques and I work together. Commoners or aristocrats—they are all the same to us. We do what we can to save people on merit, not their ancestry.’
‘Of course you do, but it is not wise for one so young to walk such a dangerous tightrope.’ His cool green eyes regarded her quizzically. ‘What an extraordinary young woman you are. I would have thought young ladies could find more interesting and exciting ways of passing their time.’
As he gave her a long, leisurely look, there was a twist of humour around his attractively moulded lips. The smile building about his mouth softened the hardness of his jaw and made him appear in that moment the most handsome man in the world to Delphine. Then, suddenly, his direct masculine assurance disconcerted her. She was acutely conscious of his close proximity to her and she felt an unfamiliar rush of blood singing through her veins. Instantly she felt resentment towards him. He had made too much of an impact on her and she was afraid that if he looked at her much longer he would read her thoughts with those brilliant clever eyes of his.
‘I am sure you are right, but not nearly as rewarding or as worthwhile. What I do is more than a pastime for me. I see you are surprised.’
‘Surprised, yes—and appalled to a certain extent. You are an attractive young woman and why your family has allowed you to become involved in this unusual and extremely dangerous occupation, I cannot imagine.’
Delphine’s expression did not alter, but, stung by his words, something in her eyes stirred and hardened. ‘As a rule I have never cared for anyone’s opinion and I most certainly would never let them influence my actions. My work is often difficult and intense and frequently takes me away from home, but I take pride in what I do and what I achieve—that the people I help escape the terror if they’re lucky. You would be surprised at the things I do—what I have seen. There is more than one kind of prison.’
‘Do you work for the Intelligence Service?’
‘I am not a spy—I realised I could do more for those unfortunates than working out codes and wielding a knife, but if I pick something up I think is useful, I report back. British Intelligence have a team that do this regularly. Not all are successful, but some make it across the Channel. The network has loyal people posing as supporters of the Republic—such as Gaspard Ducat at the Conciergerie.’
‘I thought he let me out for a heavy purse.’
‘He did, but he also works for himself and not the Republic.’
‘It will be over one day—soon, I hope.’
‘I would like to believe that, but life has taught me such belief is fantasy, wishful thinking.’
‘Nevertheless, it is a hard and dangerous life you have chosen. Most young women would be having fun attending parties and balls. You are so beautiful, young gentlemen would be dancing attendance on you.’
She shook her head. ‘I never was suited to wearing fine clothes and making small talk in society. I would be bored out of my head for most of the time.’
He nodded. ‘But you are beautiful. I suppose you don’t want to hear it—and not here in this place of hopelessness—but all the same, it is true.’
Delphine knew she was beautiful. It was a fact. She saw how men gazed at her with unabashed desire, remarking on her eyes or her hair or her lips. This Englishman saw her beauty in the gloomy light, but he looked past it. Either that, or he was clever enough to see that she wanted to offer more to the world than a beautiful face.
The smile she gave him was one of irony. ‘You are right. I don’t want to hear it. Not now. Not ever. I was meant for action—what I do suits me.’
‘You have done well. You have saved many desperate souls—including my own. I shall be eternally grateful.’
Delphine slowly arched a brow and her smile was bland. ‘So you should be. Your gratitude is something I appreciate. There are many more that will want saving before this is over. I shudder to think what will become of them all—what will become of France.’
‘While ever the peasants starve and they continue to demand a fairer taxation system, France will not abolish the fight any time soon. Who gives you your instructions?’
‘I take my orders from Sir Godfrey Bucklow at the Ministry of Defence. Have you heard of him?’
He nodded. ‘I do know him. Sir Godfrey is a fine man, an exacting man—he must think highly of you to entrust you with such difficult tasks.’
‘Being half-French, and because I speak the language fluently, he was delighted to use my services. He was the one who paired me up with Jacques. The three of us have good communication. It’s worked well so far.’
‘And the future? What does that hold for you?’
‘I live for the present. Nothing more than that—and at this present time I must focus on getting you out of Paris.’
‘Where are we headed?’
‘I have orders to take you west to Granville.’
His eyes widened. ‘Granville must be two hundred miles away.’
‘If everything goes to plan, with little respite and changing the wagon outside Paris for a more serviceable equipage, which is waiting for us along with a change of clothes and provisions and horses en route, we should do it in two days.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You have it arranged?’
‘Oh, yes. Every step.’
‘I’m impressed.’
‘A vessel will be waiting to take us to Guernsey, which is where we will part company. You will meet someone there who will take you to London. But first we have to get out of Paris.’
‘Through one of the gates.’
‘It is the only way out. There are guards on every gate on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary—especially aristocrats fleeing Paris. Every day they uncover some fugitive royalist trying to flee the city and send them back to be tried by the tribunal. The guards are all revolutionaries who take it upon themselves to search everyone. It will be fraught with danger,’
‘Why Guernsey? Why not go direct to Calais?’
‘I am only following orders. But I think it is because now that Britain is at war with France, it will be safer. There is also a British fleet off the coast of Brittany. When your disappearance from the Conciergerie becomes known, Calais is the first place they will look.’
‘And if the plan fails?’
As she got up from the table, Delphine’s eyes were hard. ‘It won’t. I’ve made the journey several times. This time will be no different.’ Walking towards the stairs in the corner of the room, she found it gave her courage to speak with an assured confidence, although the worst of the terror that had gripped her on going to the Conciergerie had left her. ‘There is nothing we can do until morning so we might as well get some sleep. We have an early start and there will be no time for rest until we reach Granville. There is a small room up above if you would prefer. Maurice will show you should you wish.’
Rolling the cloak she had given him earlier into something resembling a cushion and placing it behind his head supported by the wall, then folding his arms across his chest, he shook his head. ‘I’ll stay where I am for the time being. Should we have any unwelcome visitors I have no wish to be caught napping.’
‘As you like.’
Delphine paused with one foot on the bottom step of the stairs and looked back at him. When all the world was topsy-turvy, how could he simply close his eyes and go to sleep? She envied his inner calm. He had made quite an impression on her and was different to any man she had known. There was something sensuous about the manner in which he had regarded her, something, too, in the tone of his voice. She thought he was too much aware of her—physically. He made her uneasy and yet at the same time he stimulated and excited her.
She told herself that he was nothing to her, just a handsome man she happened to rescue from his prison, and that as soon as they reached Guernsey any association between them would cease.
Laurence watched her toss her head, her plans made and confident they would be carried out successfully. He had considered telling her that now he was free of the Conciergerie he would make his own way to the coast, that to travel all the way to Granville was a bad idea, but thought better of it. She did not look like someone who would appreciate criticism, given or implied.
Making himself as comfortable as was possible, he thought of the young woman who was prepared to risk life and limb to get him out of France. All the while they had been talking she had studied him with cool interest, her expression immobile and guarded. His eyes had met her gaze and there were times when he thought she was looking into the heart of him, getting the measure of him, of his faults and failings. He had never seen eyes that contained more energy and depth.
It was not until he heard her voice that he realised the depth of her charm. Her voice was low, beautifully modulated, and her French was a joy to hear. Her face was softly rounded with a faint smattering of freckles. She had high cheekbones with a cream complexion and a perfect nose. Everything about her fascinated him, drew him to her, and he’d felt a stirring of interest when he’d looked into the glowing amber eyes and the passionate face of the young woman who had just left him.
He became thoughtful and a heavy frown creased his brow. His curiosity was aroused. His saviour was a woman who lived and breathed her cause and he did not know how he knew, but he knew she was that rare individual who would tell the whole world to go to blazes should it get in her way. She was a force of nature, a young woman who would break all the rules. An instinct, a built-in awareness that thrived inside the adventurer in him and was essential if one was to survive, told him that here was the dedication, ambition, determination and sense of purpose of one who meant to succeed. There was an air about her, in the set of her chin and the firmness of her lips, a resolve so obstinate and positive that he was forced to admire.
In the silence of the inn he let his mind drift to England and what awaited him there. Born to a life of privilege, four years ago he’d been a man of twenty-six with a promising career with the Intelligence Service, a popular man about town who could count nobility among his friends, a fine London house he had shared with his father and never a serious care in the world. Then his father had died and Laurence had taken his place as Fourth Baron Beaumont, and he was no longer carefree.
With mounting debts his father had run up gambling on anything that moved, and faced with the responsibility of staying afloat, at a time when France was in upheaval he had thrown himself into his work and got himself arrested in a plot to rescue the beleaguered King Louis from captivity.
Closing his eyes, he knew he would have to give serious consideration to his future when he returned to London and one thing he was sure of: he would not be drawn back into the Intelligence Service.
