Seduction (30 page)

“Like hell,” he said softly, staring coldly now.

She felt some alarm, then.

“What is going on in here?” Dominic strode into the room, his expression as dark as a thundercloud. Then he turned back and slammed the door closed.

“Julianne is playing for me,” Warlock said amiably.

Dominic’s dark stare was murderous. If looks could kill, Warlock would keel over. “Leave us, Warlock. And I will deal with you in another moment.”

Warlock was amused. “Such an attachment.”

Dominic gestured at the closed door. Warlock smiled at Julianne. “I look forward to seeing you again, Julianne. It has been a pleasure.”

She watched him leave, filled with relief that the encounter was over.

Dominic strode to her. “What were you discussing?”

There was no point in lying. “We were discussing Tom.”

“Treyton has gotten what he deserves.”

“Prisons are dangerous places,” Julianne said, returning his stare.

“I am not intervening on his behalf.” He was firm. “You are not becoming involved in these spy games, Julianne. I won’t have it. I want your word.”

She bit her lip and nodded. “I don’t want to play spy games,” she said, and it was the truth.

“Good.” He pulled her close. “The last guests are leaving,” he said softly.

Julianne could not wait to leap into his arms.

B
RIGHT
SUNLIGHT
POUNDED
at her eyelids. Julianne awoke and realized that a maid was opening the draperies in Dominic’s bedroom. For one sleepy moment, she smiled, thinking about Dominic’s lovemaking—and his love. Then she recalled what she had to do.

Tugging the covers up, she sat, her stomach churning with dread. She reminded herself that there was no choice. Momma’s and Amelia’s safety—perhaps even their lives—were at stake.

Her stomach roiled.

She fought the nausea.

The last of the draperies were now open. Bright sunlight filled the room. “I have brought you
le petit déjeuner
,
mademoiselle
.” Nancy smiled at her. “His lordship left at nine this morning, and he told me to do so at ten.”

Julianne couldn’t smile back at her.

“
Mademoiselle?
Are you unwell?”

Julianne cried out, leaping from the bed and racing for the chamber pot. There, she vomited violently.

When she was finished, Nancy slid her caftan over her naked body. Julianne trembled, the nausea gone. She slowly stood up, with Nancy’s help. Her gaze met the concerned housemaid’s.

“Are you better now?” Nancy asked softly.

What explanation could she make for having been so sick? Julianne wondered. She smiled at Nancy. “I haven’t been feeling well, these past few days,” she said, and as she spoke, she realized it was the truth. She had been sleeping late frequently and awaking still tired, if not exhausted. At times, she was ravenous. At other times, she was queasy. And her fear and anxiety were now truly making her ill. Her head ached constantly.

“I think I have a bit of the flux,” she said. But she knew that was not why she had vomited.

Nancy hid an odd smile, looking away. “Some toast will help.”

And Julianne wondered if the French maid had realized that she was carrying Dominic’s child. “Yes, I am sure it will.”

Julianne smiled at her and went to brush her teeth. How much worse could it be? she wondered. She was thrilled to be pregnant—if she was, indeed, with child. But bringing Dominic’s child into the world now, when she had to betray him, seemed like a travesty.

She finished her morning ablutions and lingered in the bathing room, listening to the maid as she made up the bed. Finally, Nancy departed.

Her heart thundering, Julianne left the closet. Hating what she was about to do, she walked over to his bedroom door, wishing she could lock it and knowing she must not. Instead, she listened to any sounds that might be coming from the hallway. There were none.

Fairly confident that no one was outside, she opened the door very slightly and peeked into the hall. It was empty.

Moving swiftly now, she shut the door and hurried over to Dominic’s
secrétaire
. The lower right-hand drawer remained locked. Where would he hide the key?

She sat down at the desk and rapidly went through the other drawers. She found many items, but not a key. So she sat in his chair, turned to face the door and began thinking.

Her mind leapt to life. Hadn’t she seen him at his bookcase several times, first thing in the morning, when she first awoke? And it was always in the same place. Didn’t he often go to his desk to make notes or write letters after lovemaking, while she fell asleep? And now, she thought she recalled seeing him at his bookcase—in that identical location, not far from the catty-corner window.

She looked at the wall of books. What better place to hide a key?

She got up and went to the area she had seen him standing at and began going through books on the uppermost shelves, certain she had seen him returning a book to the second or third topmost one.

Ten minutes later, a small brass key fell out of a volume of poetry.

Julianne stared down at the floor, her heart thundering so loudly. She could hear it and it sounded like a drum. She laid the book horizontally on top of several vertically stacked books, and slowly bent and retrieved the key.

She was going to be ill again, she thought.

Glancing at the closed door, she hurried to the
secrétaire
. She unlocked the drawer and opened it and sat down.

There were some scribbled notes within. His cursive was indecipherable—and she was relieved. But there was also a sketch and an unfinished letter.

Julianne cursed.

The sketch was of a coastline. There were several marks, but no place names. It didn’t matter. She was fairly certain she recognized the coastline with its jutting left-and right-hand peninsulas. He had drawn the coasts of Brittany and Normandy. The starred area looked to be in the middle of the two.

She was sicker now, but she committed the sketch to memory. Then she picked up the letter. He was writing to someone she did not know.

My dear Henri

Thank you for your letter. I am always glad to be kept abreast of all affairs at the Chateau. Please begin the harvest on the second week of October, as I have determined that is the best time to pick the grapes, assuring us of the best fruit. My agents will arrive in Granville to inspect the season’s yield, and discuss various prices with you, once its quality is assured. Should there be any delay due to the difficulties inherent in these conflicted times, I will inform you posthaste.

Sincerely,

Dominic Paget

Was he writing his agent at a vineyard on one of his estates, or was the entire letter in code? Would he really care about a harvest now—about the price of wine? On the one hand, she dearly hoped she had found nothing but strange sketches. On the other, she prayed Marcel would be pleased.

Julianne replaced the notes, the sketch and letter, locked the drawer and put the key back in the book.

And in despair, she thought, how easy that had been.

“Y
OU
SEEM
DISTRAUGHT
.”
Warlock slowly stood up from the club chair he was seated in.

It was five in the afternoon and Dominic was on time for their meeting. This particular gentleman’s club was dark and dreary, the wood-paneled walls almost black, the rugs dark red, the furnishings as grim. Various groups of gentlemen were seated about the room, some reading, others with drinks or in muted conversation. It was the first time they had met here. No one looked at Warlock, but several gentlemen saw Dominic and tried to catch his eye.

He ignored everyone. Julianne had been acting oddly for the past few days and he could not imagine what was bothering her. He felt that it had to be far more than the jeopardy Tom Treyton was in.

Their relationship was progressing so swiftly now and he was stunned by the extent of his feelings for her, and the new nature of the intimacy they were sharing. Even their lovemaking had changed. But she was upset, and so was he, but for his own reasons. He hated the notion of returning to France, yet knew he had to do so. But it was almost as if he was suddenly torn between staying with her and fighting for his country.

Warlock had been alone with a brandy and a newspaper. He gestured at an adjacent leather chair, the arms terribly worn. “If you remain angry with me for speaking with Julianne last night, you should be pleased to know that she hasn’t agreed to anything.”

Dominic sat abruptly. “Leave her out of your damned spy games—if you want my help.”

Warlock started. “You are in love!”

“Perhaps I am. Either way, I suggest you leave Julianne alone.” He snapped his fingers at a passing servant, vastly annoyed now. Dominic ordered a scotch.

“You are threatening me?” Warlock was amused. “I know you better than you know yourself. No matter how attached you have become, you would never turn your back on La Vendée.”

Warlock was right. He was in love but he had no intention of reneging on his commitments, or failing in his patriotic duty. He leaned forward. “Just leave her out of this damned war. Have you heard anything new from Windham?”

Warlock said, very softly, “There is a mole in the Admiralty.”

That hadn’t been what he had been asking. Dominic stiffened, shocked. “You must know who it is—or be on the verge of finding out. Otherwise, you would not be in such good spirits.”

“It is one of Windham’s clerks,” Warlock said, now grinning.

Dominic almost choked. A French agent was inside the War Office, clerking for the war secretary? He was in disbelief.

“I do not yet know who he is—but I am on his trail, and I will soon find out.”

Dominic knew Warlock well, too. “Now I see why you are in such good humor. You will leave him in place and play cat-and-mouse with him.”

Warlock saluted him with his glass. “Oh, yes. When the time is right, we will feed him false information. Eventually, I will uncover and unravel his entire network.”

He loved this war, Dominic thought grimly. But someone had to do what Warlock did.

Sebastian reached into his breast pocket and handed Dominic a sealed letter.

He instantly recognized Michel’s handwriting. Warlock said, “I also received a missive from Jacquelyn. The French soldiers who were defeated and imprisoned at Mainz have been released. They have been redeployed—and are marching on the La Vendée rebels in le Loire.”

His heart lurched hard. The focus of operations on the Rhine front had been the city of Mainz, which had been besieged by the allies last March.

Dominic ripped open Michel’s letter and began reading it. As he had thought, the rebels were starving and severely lacking in munitions and arms. And Jacquelyn knew that the troops released from Mainz were marching toward them—he was begging for immediate aid.

And as he read Michel’s letter, his insides roiled. He was going back to war, anarchy and revolution… He wasn’t sure if he would survive this time. And for the first time, he was thinking not of his life, but of his sanity. “Is Windham considering moving up the dates for the supply convoy?” he finally asked.

“No.”

He would send the letter he had just written by courier tomorrow at dawn, he thought grimly. Michel would not be pleased to learn that the rendezvous with the supply convoy would not take place for another six weeks—in mid-October.

“I have arranged passage for you on the seventh at dawn,” Warlock said.

Dominic started. He would return to France in four more days! His respite was
over.

“You will go directly to Nantes, meet with Jacquelyn and assess the situation. Stay out of combat. Report back to me immediately. Maybe your firsthand account of the situation will change Windham’s mind.”

He was suddenly furious and he threw the letter at Warlock’s chest. “It is all in there. They are starving. They have few arms. There are no munitions.
That
is my report!”

“We estimate that the French troops will be within striking range in another week,” Warlock said calmly, taking the letter and laying it aside. “And I mean it, Paget. You are too valuable—do not even think of joining in any battle.”

He knew he would never stand back on the sidelines, like a coward, while his people went to war. But now it truly began to sink in. He was leaving in days.

What about Julianne?

And something within his heart twisted. It hurt. Strangely, he did not want to leave her.

In that moment, he knew he must make provisions for her. She could hardly return to Cornwall, and live at Greystone manor in the impoverished straits she was accustomed to. He would instruct Catherine to allow her to reside at Bedford House; he could even bring her sister and mother to town for companionship, if Julianne wished. But then what? He could not ask her to wait for him. It wasn’t fair.