Brenda Joyce - Seduction

Writing ciphers by candlelight, then smuggling them through a network of couriers to the coast, to be transferred to London, was not heroic—it was terrifying. It was not heroic to pretend to be that Frenchman or to pretend to be a French army officer—it was not heroic to take up a musket and march off into battle, fighting to defend one’s birthright against one’s countrymen. It was all a great necessity, a matter of survival.

It was all madness.

How shocked and horrified she would be by it all.

But she would never hear any such nonsense from him. He was too deep in this alias to get out. If anyone at Greystone learned that he was an Englishman, much less that he was Paget, there was but one obvious conclusion to draw—that he was a British agent. After all, he had been transported from France, he’d been speaking French and he now posed as a Frenchman. The leap would be a simple one to make.

Her sister and two brothers could be managed, certainly—they were patriots. He did not worry about their mother; he had eavesdropped and learned that she was mentally incapacitated.

But it was preferable that they never learned of his identity. Only five men knew that Dominic Paget, the earl of Bedford, was a British agent working under an alias in France. Those men were Windham, the War Secretary; Sebastian Warlock, whom he assumed was his spymaster; Edmund Burke, who was highly influential in governing circles; his old friend, the earl of St. Just; and of course, Michel Jacquelyn.

That circle must never be expanded. The more people who knew the truth, the more likely it was that he would be unmasked.

But Julianne was a different matter entirely. She was not a patriot. Her friends in Paris would soon recruit her to actively work on their behalf—it was how the Jacobin clubs operated. Even now, he did not trust her entirely. If she ever learned he was Dominic Paget, he would not trust her at all.

Sooner or later, he would return to France and continue the fight for his land and his people. He had spent summers at his mother’s chateau as a boy. It was his chateau now. The men and boys who had died at Nantes so recently had been his neighbors, his friends and his relations. He had known Michel Jacquelyn since childhood. Jacquelyn had already lost his estate—it had been burned to the ground by the revolutionaries. They couldn’t burn his title, though—they couldn’t burn his birthright—or his patriotism.

If Julianne ever learned who he was and exposed him to her French friends, he would be in even greater jeopardy. The spy networks inside France were vast. Men he thought mere commoners and men he knew to be gendarmerie would have his description and seek to uncover him. No one in Paris could trust the kindly matron next door, or the elderly bookseller down the street. Neighbor spied on neighbor, friend upon friend. Agents of the state were everywhere, seeking traitors. Enemies of the revolution were decapitated now. In Paris, they called it Le Terroir. There was nothing like the sight of the gendarmerie leading the accused in shackles to the guillotine, the crowds in the street cheering. There was nothing like the sight of that street running red with blood. He would never survive discovery and arrest.

But he was being very careful. If all went according to plan, he would recover from his wound and simply leave. He would be journeying to London to plan for the resupplying of La Vendée by the War Office, but Julianne would assume he had gone back to France, to resume his command in the French army.

It was so ironic.

She was interrupting him, he thought. She was interrupting because this was a game, not a real flirtation. He was not her French army officer, eager to share tea, but a British agent who needed to get to London—and then return to France. He estimated it would be another week before he was ready to leave the manor and travel to London. It was at least a two-day carriage ride. But in a few more days or even a week, he could steal a horse or a carriage and go to St. Just. Even if Grenville were not in residence, as he most likely would not be, his staff would leap to obey his every command once he made it clear who he was.

Their time together was very limited now. He would leave on the pretext that he was returning to France. His cover would not be compromised; Julianne would remember him as her war hero, while her brothers would assume him to be a smuggler whose life they had saved.

The solution was ideal.

“You are staring,” she said softly.

He smiled at her. “I am sorry. You are easy to stare at.” It was the truth, so he softly added, “I enjoy looking at you, Julianne, very much so.”

She no longer blushed at his every word, but he knew his flattery pleased her. “You can be impossible, Charles.” Her stare was direct. “I also enjoy looking at you.”

Julianne sat opposite him and began to pour the tea, trembling. He wanted her, but she was so innocent. Yet he wouldn’t think twice about taking that innocence if she were infatuated with the man he actually was. He would enjoy having such a woman as his mistress, both on his arm and in his bed. He would like showing her the finer things in life or taking her about London. But that would never happen.

“You are so thoughtful today,” she said, handing him a cup and saucer. “Are you thinking about your family?”

“You are very astute,” he lied.

“You must miss them,” she added, her gaze on his. “Do you realize that you have asked me dozens of questions, while I have not asked you anything at all?”

“Really?” He feigned surprise. “You can ask me anything you desire, Julianne.” Outwardly he was casual, but inwardly he was entirely alert.

“Who is Nadine?”

He started. How did she know about Nadine? What had he said in his delirium? He avoided thinking about his fiancée. He would never forget the months he had spent frantically trying to locate her—and then, eventually, his only choice had been to conclude what had been her fate. “Did I speak of her when I was delirious?”

She nodded. “You mistook me for her, Charles.”

It was always best to stay as close to the truth as possible. “Nadine was my fiancée,” he said. “She got caught up in a riot in Paris and she did not survive it.”

Julianne cried out. “I am so sorry!”

“Paris isn’t even safe for the sans-culottes,” he said, referring to the unemployed and the homeless. “Unfortunately, the mobs are incited to violence more often than not.” He spoke calmly. “Nadine was knocked down when she tried to navigate the crowd.” That was true. He had known Nadine since childhood and their engagement had not surprised anyone. Nadine’s ancestral home was outside Nantes, just down the road from his mother’s chateau. Her family had fled France shortly after her death.

He had imagined her death in the riot many times; he was careful not to do so now. He was careful not to really think about what he was saying. He was careful not to feel. “You do not want to know the rest.”

It was a long moment before Julianne spoke. When she did, her gray eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I thought that the mobs were protesting the lack of employment and the high prices. Everyone deserves employment, a good wage and a decent price of bread. The poor cannot feed their families or even shelter them!”

Spoken like a true radical, he thought grimly. “Their distress is inflamed by the politicians,” he said, meaning it. “Yes, everyone should have employment and a wage, but the radicals—the Jacobins—deliberately incite crowds to violence. Fear rules the streets—the people. There is power for those who can cause the fear. And the innocent like Nadine are caught up in the violence and are its victims.” He knew he must stop, but he hadn’t actually said anything amiss. After all, any man would speak as he just had if his beloved fiancée had been murdered in a mob.