Napoleon's Woman (22 page)

"Good day, my lord. Would you like your regular range?"

"Yes, Alfred," Aidan said as he was led by the footman to his customary position at the far end of the row. He nodded to Lord Deaver on his left, and removed his riding gloves.

The servant returned with the box containing Aidan’s dueling pistols. He removed the weapons from their red velvet casing and took a moment to admire the quality of the craftsmanship. The sterling silver mechanisms had been polished to perfection by the man that now loaded the first of two pistols.

"My lord," the man said simply as he handed the loaded weapon back to Aidan, who then lifted the firearm and with steady aim hit the target dead center. Unfortunately, the target happened to belong to Lord Deaver, who looked at the crack shot Earl of Wessex with a raised brow.

"Sorry, old man." Aidan reached for the second pistol, taking time with his aim. He squeezed the trigger, hitting the wall a good two feet above his own target.

"I must say, my lord, you are by far the worst shot that I have ever had the misfortune to witness." Aidan rolled his eyes and turned toward his sarcastic brother-in-law standing just behind him. "You do, of course, realize that you are aiming for the black mark at the center of the target?"

"Yes, Your Grace, and if you would do me the honor of sodding off, I could get back to my amusement."

"I don’t think that is a sound decision, my lord."

"Why the bloody hell not?"

"Well, firstly, from the smell of scotch wafting from within five yards of you, I would say that you have little chance of hitting the broad side of a landau, much less your target. Secondly, I believe you have frightened Lord Deaver here."

Lord Deaver grinned, saying, "Damn right. Thought I would have to duck that last round."

"So, dear brother-in-law, I have come to fetch you for dinner, assuming, of course, that you are able to eat."

Aidan looked up at the silvery eyes of the Duke of Glenbroke. "Far be it for me to reject such a gracious invitation." He turned to the footman. "Thank you, Alfred. I believe that will be all for today."

"Thank God," the duke said. "Now." The oversized man squeezed his shoulder. "Can you walk or shall I carry you?"

"Why the hell my sister married you, I shall never fathom."

Gilbert de Clare chuckled, agreeing, "Nor shall I."

***

The two men sat several hours later watching the Duchess of Glenbroke withdraw from the dining room. Aidan called for his third cup of coffee, and when it was brought the duke dismissed the six footmen with a wave of his hand.

"You knew, didn’t you?" Suppressed rage vibrated in Aidan’s voice.

"Yes," the duke said. "I would have told you if I could have, Aidan. But it was done to protect Lady Rivenhall."

Lord Wessex’s forehead knotted in anger. "And I suppose my following an English operative was very amusing for you both."

"Aidan--"

"And your suggestion that I seduce her…" He shook his head, unable to continue as regret and shame overcame him. "Have you any idea what you have done to me, Gilbert?"

The duke leaned forward on his muscular forearms. "What would you have me do, Aidan? Initially, I was unaware that Lady Rivenhall was working for England. I needed to identify her contacts, but you were determined to expose her. I merely gave you a reason not to."

"And that is why you suggested I bed her?"

"Yes."

"Damn you, Gilbert," Aidan said, gripping the side of the table while his jaw pulsed in rhythm with his anger.

His brother-in-law waited, allowing Aidan’s temper to cool. "Lady Rivenhall needs--"

"No!"

The duke’s notorious temper flared. "You owe the woman your life, Aidan, and now that this traitor has turned to murder you leave her unprotected?"

"Why me?"

"You already know who she is, the importance of her mission. The fewer people that know of her existent the more likely she is to succeed. Why are you so resistant?"

Aidan exploded out of his chair, knocking it to the floor. "Leave it, Gilbert."

The duke’s initial confusion faded and was replaced with steely determination. "Very well, Lord Wessex. I believe your commission as a lieutenant in His Majesties service does not expire for two months, is that correct?"

"You bastard."

The duke rose to his feet and removed a sealed document from the pocket of his blue jacket, raising it in Aidan’s direction.

"I hereby order you on behalf of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent to assist Lady Celeste Rivenhall in the performance of her duties until notified otherwise."

Aidan snatched the missive and crushed it in his hands. The royal seal crumpled into several pieces that fell to the polished wooden floor of the immense dining hall. He turned for the door when the duke’s words resounded in the room.

"You will be contacted when you are needed."

Aidan spun ‘round and gave an exaggerated bow. "How thoughtful of you, Your Grace. I shall be breathless with anticipation."

Gilbert de Clare stared after his brother-in-law as the man slammed his dining hall doors with such violence the sound echoed throughout the room. He sank down on the cushion of his chair and lifted his cognac to his lips.

The door opened gently and his wife walked toward him. "From the manner in which my brother left, I take it the interview did not go well."

Gilbert raised his hand to her and pulled Sarah between his thighs. "No, I’m afraid not," he said, resting his head against his wife’s chest as his arms slid around her waist.

She smoothed his hair back and kissed him on the forehead. "It’s not your fault, Gilbert. Aidan will recover."

"No," the duke said, kissing the swells of his wife’s breast. "I don’t think he will."

Sarah clicked her tongue in indignation and pushed on his shoulders so that she could see his face. "Why on earth would you say such a thing? Of course he will come ‘round. Lady Rivenhall saved his life, after all. He just requires a few days to get over having been deceived, that is all."

"No." Gilbert pressed his lips to her neck.

"Why not?"

"I’m afraid your brother has fallen in love with Lady Rivenhall." He was kissing her breasts again, and his right hand cupped the tantalizing mound in his palm.

"How do you know?"

"Because, my dear, that is precisely the same look I had when you were driving me wild with wanting."

Gilbert pulled her in his lap and ended their conversation with a searing kiss before taking his wife upstairs and worshiping her with his body.

***

"How is she?" Sarah’s dark brows were pulled together with concern.

"Not well," Juliet sighed. "She has not left her bedchamber for three days. I’m afraid she blames herself for Lord Elkin’s murder."

The duchess sighed, asking, "How could she possibly blame herself?"

"Lord Elkin proposed to her that evening, and when she refused his offer, he made his way to Whitehall."

"But he might have planned to go to the Foreign Office either way."

"I know."

Their voices became a murmur when Lady Appleton stepped away from the bedchamber door. Felicity looked at the breakfast tray that had been brought two hours earlier, and her stomach lurched.

How could she
not
blame herself for John’s murder? The fact remained that if not for her, Lord Elkin would not have gone to that building, to that room. She slipped back into bed and pulled the counterpane over her head to block out the offending morning light. Unfortunately, it did not block her last words to John Elkin from her memory. He had poured his heart out to her, and once again she had crushed him.

Why hadn’t she accepted his offer? Why hadn’t she had the courage to say yes and make her dear friend her husband?

Felicity felt the tears begin again. She pulled her knees to her chest and let them fall, wondering if she would ever be able to forgive herself. However, she was brought out of her grief by the sound of a small crack.

Lady Appleton sniffled and sat up, unsure if she had heard something. She listened and a few moments later heard a second clatter coming from the direction of the window.

She walked toward her balcony at the back of her London townhome, and saw a yellow hatbox with silk flowers adhered to the lid. Confused, and more than a little curious, Felicity opened the French doors and bent down to the retrieve the gift.

She brought the box to her bed and opening it. Inside on a white muslin cloth sat a tiny orange kitten with an indigo satin bow tied round its neck. The kitten blinked against the light, displaying big blue eyes.

Felicity picked up the minuscule cat and was amazed by the delicacy of the animal’s ribs. She brought the kitten to her cheek and smiled at the smell clinging to its soft fur, new and fresh and innocent.

The kitten gave a tiny meow and Felicity smiled in spite of her black mood. She placed him back in the box, noticing a note folded in half that leaned against the side of the package. Felicity picked it up, opening it with one hand so that she could stroke the kitten under the chin with the other.

The letter had only a few lines of script.

A few weeks ago this animal did not exist and in a few short years he will no longer be with us. Therefore, it is your responsibility to enjoy the time you have together, and cherish his memory when he is gone, for the time of his passing is not of our choosing.

Tears flooded her eyes, and although the letter had no signature, Felicity would have recognized the cramped handwriting of Lord Christian St. John anywhere.

Lady Rivenhall was seated to the right of Lord Ferrell at the Dowager Duchess of Glenbroke’s dinner party, as previously arranged.

His head was turned as he spoke to a plump young girl with crooked teeth and spots on her face. "Lady Davis," she heard him say as the dark man bobbed his head, and Celeste knew that he was turning to make his introduction to her.

She pulled her gown to tighten the bodice against her breasts and smiled with a touch more than polite interest, but less than seductive intent. However, she was unprepared for the impact of his stunning smile when he recognized her.

He turned toward her like a man who was comfortable with his body and said, as if they had never been introduced, "Lord Anthony Ferrell. How do you do? No walkway mishaps, ruined parcels or twisted ankles, I trust."

Celeste glanced at the deep cleft in his strong chin and then at his dark eyes. They were brown and surrounded by lashes so long and thick any woman would envy them. His golden complexion contrasted starkly with white teeth, and she could see that he was enjoying her perusal of his all too handsome features.

"Lady Celeste Rivenhall. And no, Lord Ferrell, since our inelegant introduction on the Pall Mall, I have remained blessedly intact."

His dark eyes flared to a deep brandy and his smile broadened as he said, "Yes, you have." His gaze drifted down her body and back to her face in a not so subtle assessment. "You’re even more beautiful than when last we met, Lady Rivenhall."

Celeste made light of his comment, saying, "You really should not flatter ladies so outrageously, my lord."

The dark man held her gaze and lifted a brow. "I don’t. I make a point of never complimenting a woman unless the remark happens to be true."

Her soup was placed before her, but he did not relinquish her gaze until he had been served as well. They turned toward the lobster bisque and ate the creamy concoction with unbridled appreciation.

"And how are you finding London?" he asked between spoonfuls. "I believe this is your first time in the city?"

Celeste displayed a charming smile. "I adore London, particularly the cultural pursuits that are unavailable to one residing in the country."

Their bowls of bisque were removed in favor of the second course, quail eggs topped with beluga caviar. She lifted a slice of egg and placed it in her mouth, closing her eyes as she noted how the saltiness of the caviar was the perfect complement to the earthy tones of the egg. When she opened her eyes Lord Ferrell was staring at her lips, and Celeste remembered how much men enjoyed watching a woman take something into her mouth.

"What pursuits interest you most, Lady Rivenhall?" the man asked with a lazy smile.

"I enjoy the theater, of course, but by far the most enjoyable aspect of town life is viewing the works of art. I have a private collection at home, but nothing could compare with London. Do you not agree, my lord?" she asked, knowing full well the man had an extensive collection in his townhome.

He looked at her in triumph, saying, "Did you know that my mother was an Italian countess from Venice?"

Celeste lied with a shake of her head.

"It so happens that she collected works of art from all over the continent and brought them to England when she married my father."

"Then you are a very fortunate man, my lord."

The quail eggs were replaced with a salmon fillet in a lemon caper sauce.

"Yes, I am, Lady Rivenhall." He smiled seductively as he leaned toward her. "Would you care to view the collection?"

"Might I?" Celeste asked with unconcealed enthusiasm.

The sultry man chuckled at her fervor. "Shall we say Thursday? We could share dinner and then take our time exploring the collection."

"I’m afraid Thursday is impossible, my lord." Celeste allowed him a moment of disappointment before adding, "However, I am available tomorrow evening."

His eyes flared with her eagerness to be alone with him. "Seven?"

"I shall count the hours," Celeste said, allowing a sensual glint to linger in her eyes.

The remainder of the dinner party passed in a blur. She had accomplished her goal, and now her mind wandered to her inevitable meeting with the Earl of Wessex.

She had not seen him since he stormed out of the interview with Falcon, and she could not help but wonder how he would react when next he saw her. Would he still be angry, or would he have reconsidered her role in the events leading to Lord Elkin’s death? Would his beautiful green eyes still reflect his disdain of her? The sight of which would shatter her heart, because it was a disdain she could not help but share.

***

Lady Rivenhall returned home to a barrage of questions from Madame Arnott.

"Well?"

Celeste stood still while her companion removed her garments. "I am to be shown his collection tomorrow evening at seven."

"And do you think this Lord Ferrell is capable of espionage?"

Lady Rivenhall laughed. "I think Lord Ferrell is capable of a great deal, I’m just unsure if collaboration is one of them." Celeste sank into her desk chair covered in yellow gingham as Marie removed the pins that held her intricate coiffure. "I shall have my answer tomorrow."

She withdrew a piece of paper from the top drawer and hesitated before writing the short note to the Earl of Wessex. Celeste blotted the page and handed the message to Madame Arnott.

"Marie, have this delivered to Lord Wessex." Her companion started for the door, but Celeste added, "And do not be seen doing so."

"Oui." Madame Arnott slipped out of the room, leaving Celeste alone with her fear…and hope.

***

The Duchess of Glenbroke gave her husband her arm as the duke escorted her into the cathedral for Lord Elkin’s funeral service.

Sarah’s stomach tightened as she passed through the heavy doors, hating to lose a man as honorable and kind as John Elkin. She sighed when Gilbert seated her on the front row as befitting their station and then settled in next to her.

The pews filled quietly with mourners, and she stared at the casket, wanting nothing more than to have the painful ceremony over with. A gentleman dressed in black settled to her right, and she turned to make her introduction. But when she saw the familiar face of Viscount DunDonell, she gave him a subdued smile and squeezed his hand in an affectionate welcome home.

Lord DunDonell had been seeing to his estates in Scotland and had recently returned to London. And although Gilbert would never discuss the matter, Sarah suspected that the viscount had been sent to meet with the northern gentry to secure much-needed funds for the peninsular campaign.

"How are you, Daniel?"

The viscount glanced back several pews, saying beneath his brogue, "Very well, Your Grace, but I am wonderin’ why the hell St. John has brought one of the ton’s most notorious widows to this ceremony." His eyes returned to hers. "Pardon, Sarah."

Gilbert chuckled, his silvery eyes settling on her, causing her heart to skip. "That is precisely what my wife inquired. However, I believe her exact words were ‘bloody hell.’"

Sarah hit her husband in the stomach with her elbow and turned to look into the sky blue of Daniel McCurren’s eyes. "I believe Christian said the lady was acquainted with Lord Elkin."

The viscount’s auburn brows narrowed. "Lady Hamilton is ‘acquainted’ with half the male members of the ton."

"Is she acquainted with you, my lord?" Sarah asked, the picture of innocence.

"No, a few of my brothers, no doubt, but not me. However, I’m afraid it will take a full week for Christian’s father to recover from this little escapade."

"You would think the Duke of St. John would be used to it by now," Gilbert said.

"Aye, you would, but the poor man keeps prayin’ that Christian will settle. Unfortunately, St. John’s antics are becomin’ more and more frequent."

Sarah’s eyes narrowed. "Why do you think that is, Daniel?"

Daniel shrugged. "I’ve no bloody idea." The viscount looked over her shoulder to the opposite side of the cathedral. "How is Lady Appleton?"

"Better, but Felicity still blames herself. Did you know that John proposed to her the night he was murdered?" Sarah asked.

"Aye, Gilbert told me. Rough that." Daniel’s striking eyes held his concern. "Please convey my sympathies to Lady Appleton."

"I will," she whispered, just as the bishop took his place behind the ornate altar so that the mourners could grieve the loss of a dear friend.