Read My Surrender Online

Authors: Connie Brockway

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Juvenile Fiction

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“I would just as soon her courage was never brought into question,” he cut in. “That is exactly why I am here. To impress upon you how
very
much I desire that her courage not be called into question. In fact, I insist on it.”

She met his gaze wide-eyed. “I don’t see why it should be. At least not in the present situation. There. I have eased your fears. Now, ease mine,” she said. “Who are you? And please, do me the courtesy of assuming I have some intelligence.”

“I never doubted it,” he said suavely. “As you already concluded, we share, at least for the present, a similar goal.”

“Then we should work in concert with one another,” she suggested.

He shook his head. “I must return to France soon. There are matters which I must attend to before I can—” He broke off. “I would stay, if I could, if only to see that you keep your word regarding Miss Nash’s safety.”

She dimpled prettily, using all of her wiles to disarm him. “How can I convince you? Your own contact, the man to whom she gives your letters and who organizes your network here in London, gives his blessing to her involvement with me.”

“My contact?”

She allowed herself a small, victorious smile. He was not the only one with sensitive information. “Yes. Toussaint.”

At his expression, she straightened. “You didn’t know?”

Dand gave her a flat look of disdain. “I never asked. I need only know that I have a contact. Not who he is. I have discovered that not knowing those things which others would exercise extremely unpleasant means to find out is the only certain way to avoiding revealing them. Should one be…
pressed.”

She understood the terrible implications and her respect for him grew. She glanced again at the little scars on the backs of his fingers. He had been tortured in France.

“How do you know of Toussaint?” he asked.

“Oh, not from Charlotte. I assure you. We discovered him quite by accident. One of the pigeons he uses to communicate with the abbey fell beneath an archer’s arrow. The archer, a minor functionary for the secretary for Alien Affairs, thought the message the bird carried odd enough to bring to his employer’s attention and thus,” she shrugged modestly, “to ours. Toussaint probably doesn’t even know we have him identified.”

“But he knows of Charlotte’s role in your network and sanctions it?” Dand asked, watching her intently.

“Yes. If not directly, by tacit consent. Charlotte’s role has grown beyond what I imagine you believe it to be. She has become a vital part of a network.
My
network. I believe that had Toussaint forbidden her to act on England’s behalf, she would have done so anyway. Perhaps you ought to take a lesson from him?”

“Ah. But then, Toussaint’s goals and mine may not be the same,” he said.

“I thought as an agent of Rome your goal was to restore the monarchy to France and with it the Roman Church with all its former rights and privileges?” she said with weighty significance. A little flicker of appreciation danced in his warm brown eyes. He really was a most attractive man.

“That is part of it. There is…a personal element, too.” He clasped the arms of the chair and pushed himself to his feet. She tilted her head back to maintain eye contact with him. “Can you pull this off, do you think?”

She nodded.

“How certain are you?”

She frowned, irritably. “I cannot guarantee anything, but I am confident of every aspect of the plan.”

“Tell me of St. Lyon.”

She could not think of any reason to refuse. “St. Lyon is a collector. Of art. Of wine. Of old books. And most especially, of women.

“He acquires lovers like some men acquire snuffboxes. The harder they are to add to his collection, the more he must have them. No particular woman incites his passion; it is the chase, the challenge of taking her from another man’s protection that excites him. He
must
have what is denied him.”

“And you do not think a man of such appetites poses a threat to Miss Nash?”

“Charlotte stands in no danger from the comte.” She did not add that had circumstances been different, this might not have been so.

She looked up. Too late, she realized Dand had read her concern in her face. She saw the suspicion on his face and hurried to reassure him. “The comte would
never
risk society’s censure by pursuing a well-connected virgin. He values his position amongst the ton far too much to endanger it by indulging in an infatuation.
If
he was to develop one.”

His eyes narrowed. He moved away from where she reclined against the silk pillows. “Besides,” she added in a throaty purr, “the comte’s attentions have already been fixed elsewhere. As you already know, he has invited me to be his ‘special’ guest at the castle.”

He studied her with an insultingly clinical eye. She swung her legs over the edge of the chaise and rose, going to him and laying her hand on his chest imploringly. “It is imperative that this letter the comte has stolen never see the light of day. We have credible information that the contents could incriminate several extremely high ranking officials in a foreign government currently pondering whether to aid or hinder England’s efforts—officials who are extremely sympathetic to our cause. This letter could destroy them.”

“You really are amazingly indiscreet,” he murmured.

She gazed up at him, trying to fathom his thoughts. If he failed to win her trust, he would be dead before he reached the front door. Or would her footman, Finn? She would rather not find out. “Do you understand?”

“Of course, I understand,” he said, suddenly impatient. “Which is why I have to return to France to reassure those who sent that letter before fear sends them fleeing the country and the game is up.”

So
that
is who he was! The agent best known as Rousse, though he had a myriad of identities and aliases, was the architect of some of the most delicate secret alliances in Europe. Ginny stared at him with new respect.

“Which is why, before I go, I need your promise that Miss Nash’s involvement in this plot ends now. Here.” His eyes narrowed. “You would not consider dragging her along in your wake to provide—how did you put it?—a divertissement while you search?”

Actually, Ginny had considered such a ploy but decided that it would be odd for her to bring along a rival. The comte was no fool. And she could not afford to provoke even the slightest suspicion.

“Believe me, Mr. Ross, I have no
desire
to put Charlotte in harm’s way—”

He moved so quickly she didn’t have time to dive for the pistol she’d left beneath the pillow. One minute he was standing relaxed a few feet away, the next he loomed over her, his hand about her throat. Tight. She grabbed his wrist, struggling unsuccessfully to free herself. His thumb pressed deeply at a point beneath her jaw. Little sparks of light rimmed her vision.

“I see I have failed to make my point,” he said. “Let me clarify my position. I do not care what you
desire
to do. I have done many things I have not particularly
desired
to do. I only care about how you act. I do not want Miss Nash endangered.
Do you understand?”
His voice was perfectly calm, perfectly cold.

She let her hands drop, nodding as she stared into his eyes. Then, as abruptly as he’d taken hold of her, she was free. He stepped back and inclined his head in a bow that, while it did not mock her, in no way apologized. “Good. I bid you good evening, Mrs. Mulgrew.”

The coast of northern Scotland
Early winter, 1788

“There’s a light on the shore!” The midshipman hollered above the roar of the storm.

“Bonfire or lantern?”

Jeremy, huddled with the boy in the lugger’s forecabin, heard the captain bellow from topside.

The screech and crash of swinging booms and groaning wood drowned out the midshipman’s panicked reply and Jeremy clutched the boy closer, trying to master his own terror.

The ship suddenly tipped, pitching Jeremy and the boy down the steeply inclined floor of the cabin until it suddenly shot up beneath them and then dashed them down again with bone-shattering force. Above, a man screamed. The captain swore viciously.

A storm had pounced upon them just as they’d come in sight of the Scottish coast. Trying to outrace the black churning clouds, the captain had turned south, away from the port of Wick. But the storm had chased them down with the savage intentness of a wolf overtaking its prey and now tossed the small lugger about savagely.

Suddenly the hatch above jerked wide open and water poured in as the captain looked down, his face taut and strained. “We’re heading in! Whether to wreckers or our salvation, I do not know!” he shouted at them. “Make ready!” He slammed the hatch shut.

“What does he mean?” the boy asked. His face was white and his small body shaking violently, but he hadn’t cried, and only the boy’s courage saved Jeremy from succumbing and sobbing himself.

“Wreckers,” Jeremy said, looking about for some ballast to which he and the boy could cling. “Men who set fires to lure boats into the rocky shores where they will be smashed to bits.
Then they scavenge the shores for loot and kill any survivors who could carry tales!”

The boy swallowed.

“Can you swim?” Jeremy asked, finding a length of heavy rope.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He spied a small wine cask and ripped the cork from it, upending the contents onto the floor while the boy watched him with round-eyed amazement. With numb fingers he laced the heavy rope through the brass handles on its side and recorked the cask.

“Come here. Good boy,” Jeremy said, lashing the rope around the boy’s waist and trying to tie a knot. “If it is wreckers and the boat comes apart, try to hold on. And if you make it to the shore safely, hide!”

“Can you swim?” the boy suddenly asked.

“No.”

The boy stared and then with a violent sound clawed at Jeremy’s hands. “Then you must tie yourself to the barrel!

“Don’t be a fool, lad,” Jeremy said, hating the sob that broke his voice. “You have to survive. I have a sacred trust from your mother. I said I would do everything in my power to see you safely to Scotland and, by God, I shall.”

“No!” the boy shouted, fighting him furiously and Jeremy, God help him, slapped his small face hard, grabbing his narrow shoulders and shaking him violently as the ship listed and lurched drunkenly.

“Listen to me!” he shouted. “I count myself a man of honor. What honor would I have if you died and I survived?
No, do not ask me to forfeit that thing that makes me worthy in my own eyes. I would not ask it of you!” he said fiercely.

“But, sir—” The boy’s face was terrible with conflict, with pride, and with terror. And honest devotion. Until that moment, Jeremy had never realized that the boy had feelings for him.

Jeremy’s heart lurched. He tried valiantly for a smile, softening his grip on the tight, shuddering little shoulders. “Besides, lad, this is but a precaution. Even if it is wreckers, I might find my way to shore yet. So do this for me.”

The boy’s eyes pressed closed a second and when he opened them he fixed his gaze on the rope Jeremy was trying to tie, swatting aside his hands and doing the knot himself, his lips quivering, tears spilling from his downcast eyes.

Crack!

The ship rolled and pitched, the prow shooting up as it hit something, sending the pair of them plummeting down the cabin amid a hail of tumbling furniture and luggage and books. The sound of splintering wood and screaming men blended with the howling wind.

So that was it, then. A great calm overtook Jeremy. Silently, he hauled up the boy strapped to the empty cask and stumbled with him up the steep inclined floor of the cabin while the ship groaned and screamed. He clambered atop the overturned desk and shoved open the hatch, grabbing the slight boy round the waist and pitching him up into the darkness outside amidst a torrent of rain and wind. He seized the boy’s hand as a wave washed over the shattered hull and a sudden realization caught him by the throat. He had not given the boy his mother’s purse or the letter to those who
were to receive him. There was no time and the boy didn’t even know to whom he was going!

He tried to scream above the din and screech of shattering timbers. “Find Ros—”

A monstrous wave broke over the sinking ship, sending torrents of bitterly cold water streaming down the open hatch. For a precious few seconds he held the boy’s hand against the mighty force.

A second later the hatch collapsed.

4

The Haymarket Theatre, London
July 17, 1806

“W
HAT A CRUSH.
Such a terrible bore, don’t you agree, Miss Nash?” Some young Pink of the Ton whose name escaped Charlotte stood posed at the railing of the Weltons’ private box, his drawl matching his well-practiced ennui.

Charlotte nodded, her mouth curving coquettishly, though in truth, she barely heard him. All evening she’d been distracted by the fact that on his visit to her three nights ago Dand hadn’t given her a message to pass to Toussaint. Since that was his sole reason for being in London, he would be coming back to do so and soon. Tonight?

A crowded box at a popular opera would be an excellent place to do so. He might appear at any second, as an attendant, an usher, or even a raggedy beggar on the steps to the opera house. She would give him a penny, she thought, if this last proved the case. She smiled at the thought.

“La, here comes St. Lyon and begad if he ain’t bringin’ that prime bit o—” the Pink of the Ton broke off abruptly. “Er, he has Mrs. Mulgrew with him.”

The Comte St. Lyon sauntered into the box, Ginny Mulgrew at his side. Suavely, he bowed toward Lady Welton and greeted the baron. He was a handsome man, Charlotte thought, no one could argue otherwise. A little above middle height, slender and straight with the heavy Gallic features that somehow only the French can wear with urbanity. Dark, smooth hair swept back from a wide, furrowed forehead. A broad yet elegantly shaped nose separated dark, liquid eyes. He caught her studying him and with a self-satisfied smile approached.

The Pink inclined his head, his gaze sliding indecisively toward Ginny. “Comte,” he said. “Ah…ma’am.”

Ginny ignored him, making her way to the balcony rail overlooking the crush below. The comte cut him directly, too, thereby ending the boy’s miserable uncertainty of whether or not he ought to address a demirep in front of a lady. Mumbling a word of good-bye, the Pink slunk off, leaving Charlotte alone with the comte.

“How delightful to see you again, Miss Nash,” he said.

Falling effortlessly into the role she’d played for so many years, Charlotte’s brows rose, at once winsome and arch. “La, Comte! We meet so often I begin to fear you will find me most commonplace.”

“Never,” the comte declared. Though exquisitely polite, the very manner in which he refused to allow his gaze to stray from her face made Charlotte aware of her daring décolletage and her filmy silver lamé gown.

She resisted the impulse to draw her shawl up from where it gracefully draped her arms and cover herself. Instead, she laughed lightly, snapping open her fan and setting the silk and lace panels fluttering delicately over her bosom.

“No, I insist ’tis true,” she protested. “And I hereby swear off any entertainments where we might meet so that you will be forced to consider me frightfully exclusive.”

“Please, dear Miss Nash, do not deprive yourself of any pleasures on my account,” the comte said. “It is most unnecessary as, alas, tomorrow I leave your fair city.”

Charlotte arranged her features into a believable approximation of dismay. “But whatever for, sir?” she asked. “And might I be so bold as to ask where you are going?”

“Being bold suits you, Miss Nash,” the comte replied.

Charlotte answered by fanning a bit faster, as if he’d set her pulse racing. Oh, she was quite good at this.

“As to why and where,” the comte continued, “ ’tis a dreary responsibility. I am promised to host some of my former compatriots at my castle in Scotland. They are new to these shores and feel the need to rest before they begin their lives in England’s most illustrious city.”

A city the comte would see overrun with Napoleon’s soldiers if the price was right, Charlotte thought. “How kind you are, Comte. But how cruel of your guests to arrive during the height of the season, depriving us of your company!”

“I would that I could forgo it, Miss Nash. Still, ’tis not so great a hardship. The castle has been completely refitted and refurnished and is quite the seat of luxury. You must come and visit me there someday. Indeed, promise me you will.”

“That would be most pleasant,” Charlotte said, tipping her head winsomely while wishing him to the devil. “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Mulgrew?”

Ginny, returned from her perusal of the pits, had remained uncharacteristically silent throughout the exchange. “Yes. Wonderful.”

Around them, the Weltons’ others guests adjusted gloves, fanned themselves languidly in a futile attempt to cool the stuffy atmosphere, and in general prepared to depart. Few made any attempt to speak to the comte, none to his guest. Neither circumstance appeared to worry the comte.

“Did you enjoy the opera, Miss Nash?” he asked.

“Oh, I always enjoy a spectacle,” Charlotte responded with a glance across the packed opera house to the private boxes stacked up the ruby- and gilt-plastered walls like fantastical swallows’ nests. Inside each of these aeries, the Beau Monde turned avid faces toward the Weltons’ box.

She could almost hear them: “That girl is chasing a bad end.” “Havey-cavey sort of creature, the bane of the marchioness of Cottrell’s existence, I fear.” “Whatever are the Weltons thinking to invite a demirep into their box? Are they
trying
to ruin their young friend Miss Nash?” and, most tellingly, “I fear Miss Nash needs no accomplice in that matter.”

“Oh my.” The comte had caught her wry glance at the curiosity seekers. He bent his sleek head toward her. “I hope I haven’t provoked any undue speculation?”

“I am certain not,” Charlotte said dryly. The comte, exquisite in a midnight blue jacket, white silk stock, and yellow waistcoat knew well enough it wasn’t his presence that caused the ripple of scandalized gossip. It was Ginny’s.

Her head high, her auburn hair gleaming beneath the raised houselights, Ginny looked around with bland imperiousness. Her gown, a rose-colored silk crepe ablaze with little crystal embroidered florets, put to shame any attempts to rival it. Her skin gleamed with the sheen only a powder of abalone dust could impart and her lips, reddened with currants, held the hint of a smile. Yet, for all her beauty, she stood alone, a little circle having opened up around her, separating her from the rest of the revelers in the Weltons’ box. If she noticed, she certainly didn’t appear to care.

“What of you, Mrs. Mulgrew? Did you enjoy the opera this evening?” Charlotte asked.

“Excuse me, Miss Nash. I wasn’t attending. You were saying…?” At Ginny’s response, the comte turned and held out his hand. Without hesitation, Ginny slipped her own into it. His expression was triumphant.

Why, that is why he has come here, Charlotte realized. He knew that the Weltons were the only members of the ton oblivious enough, or simply unconcerned enough, to receive him and Ginny into their private box and he wanted everyone of consequence to see Ginny and know that he had won her from her former situation as Lord Denney’s mistress. He has brought her here specifically to show her off as his latest acquisition.

Acquisition.
The reality of what Ginny was about to do struck Charlotte all at once. Ginny was going to become the comte’s mistress. She was going to share his bed. He had
purchased
that privilege.

Charlotte struggled to maintain a neutral expression, unable to quell a rush of revulsion and hating herself for the unworthy feeling. Always before when they had discussed this plan, Ginny had seemed so matter-of-fact about the intimate aspects of it, so completely at ease with the proposal, that Charlotte had unwittingly adopted her attitude—easy to do, she now discovered, when the thing had been theoretical.

But seeing the comte’s avid expression and Ginny’s cool sufferance, Charlotte found it far harder to support. Forcefully, she reminded herself of the many people, young soldiers and shop workers, mothers and grandfathers and children, who may well depend for their futures, perhaps even their lives, on Ginny’s willingness to barter her body for an invitation to St. Lyon’s castle.

Ginny was looking past Charlotte, a trace of anxiety discernible in the stiffness of her posture. The comte had turned to trade a few words with Lord Welton, a small melon of a man notable primarily for being even more in the dark than his wife, and Charlotte took the opportunity to edge closer to the courtesan.

“You look nervous. Has something gone wrong?” she asked in a low voice. “Do you find that you cannot do this, after all? Such a sacrifice—”

“Sacrifice?” Ginny cut her off with a soft whisper. “You are glorifying me, Lottie, and I will not have it. This is what I do. This is who I am. And I have no apologies to make for either.”

“But—”

“Nothing is wrong except that I wish the comte had not brought me here,” she continued in a low voice. “But a gentleman must crow, I suppose. I just wish he had found another fence post to do it from.” Her dark eyes flickered anxiously about the opera house as though she was searching for someone. “I have had the unnerving sensation of late that I am being—” She broke off, her expression tense and a little angry.

“Being what?”

“Never mind. I am being fanciful is all,” Ginny whispered impatiently, visibly wanting to be done with the conversation. “Now, go and speak to some of those young men slathering behind you before one of them slips in a pool of his own drool.”

The sharp tone, clearly meant to bite, was out of character. “There
is
something else. Something you are—”

“Come along, Charlotte.”

Surprised by the abrupt bellow, Charlotte spun around.

“ ’Tis past time we left,” the baroness, Lady Welton, announced from her seat near the balcony, her soft, pleasant face pinched with unhappiness, her large, wide-set eyes darting from Charlotte to Ginny. The reason for her misery was clear. She was forcing herself to protect Charlotte from an unseemly influence—that influence being Ginny Mulgrew—and the role was alien to her.

Lady Welton hated what she termed “vulgar scenes” with their attendant recriminations, accusations, and hurt feelings. Which went a long way to explaining the benign neglect with which she had raised her children, as well as the myriad overlooked pranks and larks her offspring had got up to, and away with, with such regularity.

Unfortunately, though Lady Welton was excellent at winking at those things she did not want to know about, not even her amazing negligence could overlook a known courtesan whispering into the ear of the girl the baroness took every opportunity to tell Society was like a daughter to her. Not that, in Lady Welton’s own mind, a casual friendship—and its attendant interesting conversations—with a courtesan was anything but sensible.

She only wished she’d had the foresight to have made such a practical acquaintance before she’d married Lord Welton. A few “interesting conversations” would have saved everybody a great deal of embarrassment. And time. But Charlotte should be having that conversation in the hallway, or an anteroom, or some other place out of sight of her, so that when people pointed accusing fingers—and people
always
pointed accusing fingers—Lady Welton could say with perfect honesty that she had no knowledge of anything untoward, and thus not be held accountable.

But Charlotte was in plain sight of her and they
were
whispering, quite possibly about those “fascinating things,” and thus Something Had To Be Done. Worse,
she
would have to do it.

“There’s too much of a crush in here what with all these young men crowding in. A body can’t breathe proper.” Lady Welton glared accusingly at the coterie of Charlotte’s admirers who’d swarmed into the box as soon as the curtain had been drawn.

“Not yet, ma’am,” one of the young bucks protested. “No sense going out now. You’ll just end up standing in another crush waiting for a hack.”

“That’s right,” another added. “Best to sit in a crush than stand in one.”

Such sound reasoning found a sympathetic ear in Lady Welton. She hated to stand in crushes. “All right then. We wait.”

“Milord.” The comte, attending this little byplay, turned to Lord Welton. “My carriage is waiting across the street. Can I offer you its use?”

“Eh? Oh!” The baron’s pink face alit with relief. “That would be—”

“Impossible,” Lady Welton blurted out.

The baron turned, blinking at his wife who had risen to her feet, clucking like a hen whose chick was about to run after a fox. “Impossible?” he echoed bewilderedly.

“Yes.” She gave a decidedly unsubtle jerk of her head in Ginny’s direction. Charlotte felt a blush rise in her cheeks for her friend. Not that Ginny looked humiliated. She looked bored.

“Yes,” repeated Lady Welton firmly. “I want a negus punch before we go and we don’t want to keep the comte waiting. In fact, I insist he
not
wait.”

“Oh.” The baron turned with a sigh, long experience having taught him the futility of arguing with his spouse. “Someone get me wife a punch.”

The comte accepted his defeat graciously, inclining his head before offering his arm to Ginny. “We will bid you good evening then. Lady Welton. Welton.” His dark eyes slid to Charlotte. “Miss Nash?”

As soon as they left, Lady Welton snapped her fan shut and rearranged her shawl about her dimpled arms. “Well then. Let’s go. No sense being the last in line.”

“But, my dear, I just sent young Farley for a negus,” the baron said.

“Then young Farley can drink it,” Lady Welton answered, securing Charlotte’s arm firmly in her own and wading into the group of young men still milling about in the box.

“I don’t understand,” the baron said plaintively, trailing after them.

“Oh, Alfred,” Lady Welton said with the air of a great instructor bestowing a kernel of wisdom on a pupil of suspect capabilities. “ ’Tis one thing to allow a woman like Mrs. Mulgrew into one’s box when a great many other scapegraces and rattle-pates are already littering it,” here the scapegraces glared accusingly at the rattle-pates and vice versa, “and quite another to voluntarily accept her company in a closed carriage.”

And, having educated her husband on this fine point of etiquette, she elbowed young Farley, on his way through the door with the requested negus, out of her way and sailed into the crowds in the hall beyond, her husband struggling to follow.

BOOK: My Surrender
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