Loe raamatut: «Gabriel D'Arcy»

Chapter One

August 1804

When Napoleon amassed an army twenty-two miles away on the other side of the English Channel, what should an English peer of the realm do? Attend Lady Heatherfield’s summer ball, naturally. Gabe D’Arcy, the recently gazetted Marquess of Mooreshead, eyed the occupants in the over-hot marble-columned ballroom with a sense of despair. Did they have no idea of the danger facing their country? Did they not see the disillusion of the common man on their estates, in their cities and towns? If they did, they didn’t show it. Or seem to care.

The myriad candles reflected in gilt-edged mirrors threatened blindness as he gazed at his fellow peers. How would these carefully coiffed heads look in the basket at the foot of a guillotine? It was where they would end up if Britain became a satellite republic of France.

It wouldn’t happen. Not if he had anything to say about it. He’d given up everything he had to make sure it did not. His principles. His honour. Not to mention his rightful inheritance. Damn his father.

He and his father had never seen eye to eye about a great many things—politics, the treatment of tenants, the bullying of his mother—but Gabe never expected his father’s outright mistrust. Had been shocked when he understood how deep their differences of opinion had gone, to the point where his father considered him a traitor to the family name and to his country. But that was all water under the bridge. His father was dead and Gabe’s rebellion against his father’s autocratic rule had made him who he was now. A penniless marquess and a spy.

He did not let his impatience or frustration show. A worried countenance fuelled gossip. He’d suffered enough of that when details of his father’s will had surfaced. The first to turn their backs had been the matchmaking mamas who had plagued his early years. A poverty-stricken marquess wasn’t worth the time of day. Not that he’d cared, since he had no intention of marrying for years. If ever.

The hearsay about the unsavoury source of his income to support his privileged and idle bachelor life, whispers of him gulling green ’uns at the gambling tables or, worse, cheating, rolled off his shoulders. They were conjectures he’d encouraged.

The rumours about why he’d been denied the income from his estates cut pretty deep. Gossip about his support of the French revolution. The doubts about his loyalty to his country. Unfortunately for his pride, those rumours were also to be encouraged. They served a higher purpose.

Worse would be the revulsion of his fellows if the truth of his real activities came to light. A man could seduce innocents, kill a man in a duel or cheat on his wife, as long as it was all open and above board. It was the kind of underhanded dealings Gabe engaged in that would make him persona non grata in the world of the ton.

So he let them think what they would while he risked life and limb to save theirs. Given his preference, he would never visit London at all, but since he kept his base of operations secret, and since his French contacts demanded the occasional face-to-face interaction, he’d had no choice but to don the guise of charming philanderer and inveterate gambler and mingle with his fellows.

Hence his appearance at Lady Heatherfield’s ball.

A passing gentleman lurched into Gabe, who put out a hand to minimise the clumsily executed accident.

‘I beg your pardon, m’sieur,’ the florid-faced, rotund gentleman murmured, bowing low. ‘M’sieur Armande, à votre service.’

The contact he’d been expecting. ‘Mooreshead. You suffer from the heat, no doubt.’ Code words of recognition, even though they needed none. Armande, a supposed émigré, used his position to gain information for money. They had come into contact more than once over the years.

The man bowed again. ‘Indeed. Fortunately, the winds are strengthening and should bring a change in the weather.’

The winds that would bring the French from France, but there had been a change in plans. What change? ‘Let us hope it occurs soon, sir.’

‘Indeed. I have been almost prostrate these last five days.’

Five days? He had not anticipated they would make their move so soon. He had to get back to Cornwall and prepare. But what was the change in plan? ‘We will all welcome a change in the weather, even if it brings storms.’

‘The captain of your yacht, the Phoenix, I believe, would likely be interested.’

His orders were being sent to his ship. Why drag him all the way to London to tell him that? ‘I shall be sure to let him know.’

Armande dug out his snuff-box and offered it to Gabe. He lowered his voice. ‘You are in danger, mon ami. They do not trust you. Someone has been sent.’ He smiled blandly and raised his voice to normal tones. ‘No one but the English would fill their rooms so full on such a warm summer evening.’

A spurt of anger surged hot in Gabe’s chest. He controlled it. He’d spent years trying to win the trust of both sides in this war—any chink in the walls he’d built could prove disastrous. ‘Who?’ he asked in an undertone. A double-edged question. Who had been sent? And by whom? Armande had loyalty to neither side. He glanced around as if considering the man’s earlier words. ‘Personally, I am surprised anyone is in town at all at this time of year.’

Armande shook his head, his eyes regretful. He did not know the answer to either of Gabe’s questions. ‘A debt paid.’

Gabe had saved Armande from being picked up by a British coastguard one dark night. All part of the job, but even men like Armande, a man who profited from war, had a code of honour and paid his debts.

The Frenchman once more raised his voice. ‘No doubt refreshment is in order.’

‘Over there, m’sieur. Enjoy your evening.’ Gabe indicated the direction of the alcove where a footman guarded a table groaning beneath the weight of punchbowls. The Frenchman bowed and moved on.

Who didn’t trust him, Gabe pondered. The French? Or the British?

Either was possible. Or was it speculation without substance? In the world of espionage rumours ran riot.

‘How was Norfolk?’ a voice behind him asked as a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

He turned to meet the stern, harsh face of one of his oldest friends. Bane, Earl Beresford. One of only a handful of people Gabe would trust with his misbegotten life. A captain of industry, Bane owned mines and factories that fed the British war machine. His head would not remain on his shoulders if Napoleon held sway.

‘Norfolk is...Norfolk,’ Gabe said with a brief smile, knowing they were not talking about Norfolk at all. Years ago in a moment of weakness, he had trusted Bane with his secrets. And hence his life. In return, Bane had allowed him to use his family estate in Cornwall as a secret base. ‘Manners creeps around with snail-like efficiency. Boats come and go with cargo, both legal and illicit.’ He always told the truth. Or as close to it as made no difference, whenever possible. You never knew who might be listening.

‘It’s good to see you back in town,’ Bane said in his usual brusque manner. ‘Come for dinner. Next week. We would be delighted to feed you.’

‘I suppose you want to talk politics and the state of the British economy. Poor Mary.’

Bane’s dark face lit up at the mention of his wife. ‘She’s used to it. And she has some pretty good ideas of her own. So, will you come?’

The elegant Lady Mary had a lovely and very delicate neck. Easy work for a sharp blade. With a conscious effort, Gabe shook off his black thoughts and inclined his head. ‘It would be my very great pleasure, but I am not in town long enough, I’m afraid.’ The news he’d just received made it imperative he leave as soon as he informed Sceptre of this latest development. Unlike agents of the Home Office, who reported to Parliament, the political arm of government, Sceptre owed its allegiance to no one but the House of Hanover. Fortunately, for the most part, the goals of these agents of security were in accord. Sceptre, however, tended to be more secretive and entirely ruthless in achieving its aims.

‘Next time you are in town, then,’ Bane said. ‘Let me know your plans in advance and I will arrange a quiet evening at home. Meanwhile, stop racketing about. You are looking quite done up.’

He laughed. ‘Surely not that bad?’

‘Not so bad others will notice.’ Bane strolled away.

The man saw too much.

Gabe sighed and glanced around the room for a suitable dance partner to help maintain his façade. One who would not immediately give him the cold shoulder. There were plenty of females who enjoyed flirting with a man of his reputed wickedness, provided he wasn’t looking for more than a dalliance.

The babble on the far side of the room intensified. The stir of the ton at some new piece of gossip, some on dit or scandal, no doubt. The crowds at the edge of the dance floor shifted like water swirling in a strong current before parting around the object of their interest.

A woman he didn’t know. She wasn’t particularly tall, or even particularly short. Her hair wasn’t brown, or chestnut or guinea gold. Strangely, it was all of them. Her features were neither classical nor pretty nor plain, because one only noticed her large cerulean-blue eyes framed by surprisingly dark lashes. Were they dyed or natural? And why would he care? She didn’t glitter or sparkle as other females did, nor did she fade into the modest obscurity of a miss new on the town. She glowed with the incandescent warmth of the pearl choker around her throat.

And the Beau Monde hovered around her like bees over clover. Sumptuously dressed women hung on her every word, while the men mentally slavered over the flesh exposed by the low-scooping gown. The lure of shoulders and high, full breasts of palest white startlingly scattered with freckles. Instinct told him she was French. Few British women would dare such a diaphanous gown of silver and dampen their petticoats with such blatant unconcern. A recent émigrée, perhaps? One who had arrived during his absence these past few months.

A woman as sensual as sin. The words reverberated in his head. Surprising. Shocking. These days, he rarely had that kind of reaction to a woman, no matter how beautiful or fashionable.

Her gaze passed over him and flicked back. An almost imperceptible lift of brows as dark as her lashes. Interest. Followed immediately by an acknowledgement of desire. The look strummed every nerve in his body, a vibration followed swiftly by heat. Things inside him shifted, as if his spine had realigned. Stunned, he froze. His body stirred as he was caught in her clear-eyed gaze. A coolly calculating glance that spun out into timelessness before it fractured into naked vulnerability. Or not. A blink and the very idea seemed absurd for such a self-contained creature.

Realisation dawned. She was the one of whom he’d been warned.

The French, then. How typical of them to suppose he couldn’t resist the wiles of a woman. Clearly, they’d let appearances deceive them into thinking he was an easy mark. Yes, he found the woman extraordinarily attractive, but so did every male in the room.

Damn it all. And if he was right, why test his loyalty at such a critical juncture? That he now had to fight a battle on yet another front was irritating to say the least. Yet, if he’d been in their shoes, he likely would have been testing his loyalty too. His role had become pivotal to their plans. If he proved a weak link in the chain, it might set the invasion back by months. He certainly didn’t want that. The more nervous they became, the harder it would be to put a stop to their ambitions once and for all.

If he told Sceptre of his suspicions about this woman, they would demand he eliminate the danger. Coldly. Brutally. Just as Marianne had been eliminated. His stomach clenched at the memory.

No. Not without proof. Suspicions were one thing, but it behove him to discover the truth of who had sent her and why. Only a fool would eliminate a danger without knowing from whence it came.

Tension tightened his muscles. A reaction to the knowledge of an upcoming skirmish. Retaining his outward easy calm, he sauntered through the ballroom, bowing and smiling, while his skin tingled and his body burned with an inner flame. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this much anticipation. Because of the way he had come alive during the space of a glance.

As he moved among his peers, he heard her name on their lips. Nicoletta, Countess Vilandry. Society’s new novelty.

He drifted towards the refreshment table, glad to see Armande was nowhere in sight. He deliberately slowed his breathing, forced himself to think logically, sifting through the bloodlines of the French nobility. Vilandry. An old name. And one now extinguished, he thought. Lack of certainty made him uneasy. Ignorance was vulnerability in this high-stakes game. But no matter what he didn’t know, his gut sensed she was the one of whom Armande had warned.

Heat leached away, followed by cold resolve. One way or another, he must delve the secret depths of the Countess Vilandry before returning to Cornwall. And quickly.

* * *

Without a doubt, Gabriel D’Arcy, Marquess of Mooreshead, would be Nicky’s most difficult challenge to date. The gauntlet in his chilly blue eyes had been unmistakably thrown down before he coolly turned away. Not a man to be trifled with carelessly, she’d been warned, despite his reputation for charm.

Something had happened during the course of that brief visual encounter. Despite her every effort, the familiar mask of the Countess Vilandry, the seductive woman she’d become to survive her marriage, had almost slipped from her grasp. Leaving Nicky Rideau, the girl she had been a long time ago, open and exposed and unprotected. Perhaps it was Mooreshead’s sheer physical beauty that had pierced her protective shield, his golden locks and masculine physique, with no sign of the corruption she’d expected to see in a man base enough to betray his country. The sweetly painful little flutter low in her belly when their eyes made contact had been a terrible shock, when she’d expected to feel nothing at all. Such a display of weakness would have earned her a slap if Vilandry had been alive to see such a beginner’s mistake. There were no emotions involved in a seduction. The woman never admired the man. She only teased and tormented.

She’d realised her mistake in an instant and drawn the Countess around her like a domino made of steel. It was too late for Nicky Rideau. She’d been buried years ago. The Countess never let her own desires run amok. And no matter how handsome or charming he proved, he would pose no threat to a woman who had learned her arts from a master. She would expose all of his secrets and find the proof of his treachery.

Failure was not an option. Not if she wanted Paul to keep his promise to provide the false papers that would get her into France. The hint she’d received that her sister might yet be alive and alone was a bruise on her heart. And the sour taste of guilt in the back of her throat.

Exposing Mooreshead would give her the opportunity to know the truth once and for all.

It would take a delicate touch to reel in a man with his reputation. She’d made it her business to unearth the gossip about him. A man of fashion. A Corinthian. A man who drove to an inch and who displayed to advantage in the pugilist ring despite his whipcord leanness and rangy height. And an incorrigible rake. A man who took nothing seriously, unless it was the cut of his coat and the set of his cravat. A man who laughed easily, whether he won or lost a fortune. A man who needed a fortune to support his lifestyle, but who was rumoured to be penniless. That last alone made her suspicious.

But it would not be easy to pierce that carefully constructed armour of devil-may-care. At least, not easy for any other woman. The Countess had been well schooled in the art of seduction and male manipulation. Her husband had delighted in teaching his young bride how to please him as well as keep his friends and political enemies dancing to his tune. She shuddered at the recollection.

Still, Vilandry’s lessons would stand her in good stead in this new venture of hers. And if in the end, Paul did not send her to France to help with Britain’s war effort, she would have earned enough to pay her own way.

A quick scan of the room found Mooreshead near the refreshment table idly watching the dancing. Or appearing to do so. She smiled at her companion, the estimable, plump Mrs Featherstone. As a widow, Nicky did not need a chaperone, but the elderly matron, with her grey frizzled hair and placid expression, not only added a necessary aura of respectability, she was the link to her spymaster. ‘Ma chère madame,’ she said idly, ‘why is it the English must keep their rooms so warm? I swear I am parched.’

‘Do you find it so, my dear?’ the other woman said, looking vague. A habit she cultivated to great success. Her eyes sharpened as they fell on their target and she gave a small smile. ‘Why is there never a waiter nearby when one needs one? Let me see what I can do.’ She drifted in the direction the refreshment table.

A moment or two later Mooreshead arrived in Mrs Featherstone’s wake, carrying two goblets of champagne. She smiled her thanks as he handed her a glass.

‘Countess,’ Mrs Featherstone said, ‘may I introduce Lord Mooreshead, who so kindly came to my rescue. Mooreshead, the Countess Vilandry.’

Nicky gave him a warm smile, dipping her knees and inclining her head, well aware that the advantage of his height gave him a clear view of the valley between her breasts. She felt his gaze linger there just a second too long. Any other woman might have blushed or simpered; she simply waited for his gaze to return to her face. She held out her hand. ‘My lord.’

‘Countess.’ He held her hand in a firm yet gentle grip and made a bow of exactly the correct depth.

‘Mrs Featherstone tells me you have been in town a month,’ he continued. ‘I regret my tardiness in making you welcome to London. Had I known the world was about to change, I assure you, I would not have left for anything so dull as a visit to the country.’

His voice was deep and well modulated and his eyes danced with laughter. At himself and at the world in general. Or so he would have it appear. She was once more conscious of shoulders that owed nothing to the skill of his tailor and a betraying pulse low in her belly. A woman’s appreciation for a magnificent male. A warning that she must be wary of a man who so easily aroused her feminine desires. Such female weakness could only endanger her mission. But desire was not something she feared. It was a two-edged sword she knew well how to wield and she would have no hesitation in using its blade to put an end to his disloyalty.

She inclined her head. ‘A charmingly expressed sentiment, my lord, but a gross exaggeration.’

He chuckled and placed a hand to his heart. ‘’Pon my honour, my lady, you wound me.’

‘It was not my intention.’

Mrs Featherstone touched her arm. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment, Countess? I particularly wished to have words with a friend of mine this evening and she arrived a few moments ago. I fear I may lose her in this crush.’

A planned excuse to leave her alone with her mark. ‘Of course,’ Nicky said. ‘I shall be well entertained by his lordship in your absence.’

‘I shall do my best,’ Mooreshead responded and bowed as her companion departed. A moment later, his charming smile held sensual promise. ‘In the interests of my duty to entertain, may I request your hand for this next dance, Countess?’

The urge to give in to the obvious strength of will in those piercing blue eyes, his absolute confidence she would not refuse, was an irresistible pull. A delicate touch, she reminded herself. Too eager and he would grow wary. Or bored. She gave a regretful sigh. ‘Thank you, but, no, I am promised to another. Perhaps later?’

On cue, the young man who had sought the first dance the instant she entered the ballroom approached. He bowed and held out his arm with an expression of triumph. ‘My dance, I believe, Countess.’ His expression cooled as his eyes met those of Mooreshead. He gave a nod of his head. ‘My lord.’

‘She’s all yours,’ Mooreshead responded with the air of a man who had the right to relinquish possession. ‘I will return later for our dance. The supper dance, I believe we agreed.’

She shook her head at the way he had finessed taking her to supper, but smiled. ‘Bien sûr. Until then.’

Mooreshead bowed and sauntered away

Well, that had been easier than she’d expected. Almost too easy.

She would have to be careful not to rush her fences and make him overly wary. A man who walked in the dangerous world of intelligence would not be easily fooled.

* * *

Fascination with a female. It happened occasionally. Even to a man as jaded as him. It was her boldness he liked. And the intelligence behind the seductive knowing in her cornflower-blue eyes with the starburst of grey in their centres. They were eyes that seemed older than her years.

Even so, under other circumstances, he would have sheared off at the obvious ploy by the Featherstone woman. It might be a coincidence that the countess had clearly decided to inveigle her way into his company at the same moment Gabe had been warned of treachery afoot. It might also be a coincidence that her appearance coincided with new orders from France. But when both occurred at one and the same time? Coincidence it was not.

The gauntlet had been tossed at his feet. He couldn’t afford not to pick it up with matters at such a crucial stage. How annoying that despite himself, he was interested in her. As a woman. He huffed out a breath and forced himself to think logically. He needed to know why she’d been sent. What it was they suspected. He strolled around the ballroom, speaking casually to those acquaintances who would spare him a word, garnering the latest on dit. The life blood of the ton. Apparently little was known about the Countess Vilandry apart from the fact they all thought her divine.

She was the fashion. Her style admired by men and women alike. No doubt about it, the countess warranted a closer inspection.

His groin tightened at the thought of the pleasure such closeness might bring.

Inwardly, he froze. Not for years had he had such a visceral response to a woman. He certainly never let them get close. Marianne had cured him of any wish to open his heart. So why was this one different?

Something sharp and unwelcome twisted in his chest. The emptiness of his self-imposed isolation? The knowledge that there wasn’t a woman alive who would want him? Was that why he was attracted to her? Because she was a creature of lies and darkness, like him?

He mentally cursed and shook off the shadows of the past. The task was simple. Find out if she was the one Armande had warned of and, if so, eliminate the problem.

With the supper dance still a good hour away, he wandered into the card room, passing the minutes until it was time to claim his dance by joining a game of faro. It certainly wouldn’t do to be seen hanging around at the edge of the dance floor watching her like a slavering dog. Everyone knew he didn’t run after females. They ran after him. And the only ones who caught him were those who were interested in nothing but good times and no ties. As far as the world was concerned, she must be no different from his usual fare.

The stakes at his chosen table were high enough to account for his inner tension. Yet the urge to return to the ballroom and see if he had imagined the whole attraction tugged at his mind. He raised the stakes to the groans of his companions. And again when he won. Their gazes turned questioning. He could read their minds. Had he cheated?

With studied slowness, he abandoned his place, picking up his winnings to disapproving stares, and headed out into the mêlée of swirling skirts and sparkling jewels. Despite the crowds, his eyes found her immediately. A mysterious woman who shimmered among lesser gems. Lust grabbed him low in his gut.

Devil take it, whether he was right and she was sent by an enemy or not, he was going to have regrets.

He bit back a curse.

* * *

The supper dance was a cotillion. To Nicky’s delight, Mooreshead proved himself a skilled and graceful dancer. Graceful in a manly way. He was always just where one expected him to be, never turning the wrong way or forgetting a figure. And he conversed easily. No matter how difficult the step, his eyes said he was thinking of nothing but his partner. It was a skill few men managed with any great success. She was impressed.

‘How are you enjoying London?’ he asked as they came together, hands linked in a turn.

‘I find it exceedingly respectable.’

A fair brow shot up. The ice in his eyes warmed with amusement. ‘You would prefer it otherwise?’

The dance parted them and she smiled at her new partner, who turned red and stumbled.

Mooreshead rejoined her at the top of the set and they passed down the lines between the other couples.

‘I do not have a preference for things not respectable,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘But I do find it a little dull.’

‘Then it seems the gentlemen in London are failing you badly.’