The Bed and the Bachelor (26 page)

And her price for a true exchange?

No less than a letter of free passage and personal autonomy, signed and sworn by Napoleon himself. No one would dare to trouble her with the Emperor’s pledge in hand, and should matters progress so that she was again in fear for her loved ones’ safety, they would flee the country if need be.

Go to Italy, perhaps, or Greece.

She thought she would like that, like the heat. Maybe the Aegean’s sun-kissed shores would be enough to melt the ice that had crystallized deep in her bones and solidified around her heart.

She wondered again what Drake was doing and if he was sorry she was gone, or if he was even now cursing her very name.

S
he’d left him a bloody note of resignation!

After once more scanning the formal statement she’d written in her neat, flowing hand, Drake crushed the foolscap into a ball and flung it toward the unlighted fireplace grate inside her third-floor bedchamber. The paper bounced away and rolled beneath the washstand.

Stalking toward the wardrobe, he wrenched open the doors and yanked out the clothes she’d left behind, tossing them onto her neatly made bed. Shoes came next, which he chucked in a clatter onto the floor.

Nothing.

Crossing to the small chest where she kept nightgowns, petticoats and shifts, he rifled through them, flinging each atop her discarded gowns.

Nothing again.

Not so much as a receipt or a hint of anything important left behind, just her servant’s attire and the lingering fragrance of her scent.

His jaw tightened, a muscle bulging in his cheek at the reminder of violets and the cipher she’d stolen from under his nose. She was a thief and a traitor and when he caught her—and catch her he
would
—he’d see to it she was tossed into the deepest, darkest gaol they could find.

For a moment he relished the thought of her behind bars, tears streaming down her face as she told him how sorry she was, begging his forgiveness and confessing her love.

Sinking abruptly onto the bed, he fought the shallow ache in his chest. Picking up one of her shifts, he buried his face in the thin cotton and breathed her in.

Ah God, how could she have left me without a single word of good-bye? Of regret? Did I mean anything to her, or was I nothing more than a mark?

Stomach twisting, he looked out the dormer window at the growing dawnlight. He hadn’t slept. How could he when she had played him so false? When she had duped him with the skill of a consummate actress, a heartless charlatan.

Clearly, that was exactly what she was.

He would have to tell Ned, of course, and he, in turn, the War Office. The breach was serious but not irreparable. He’d already been working on an advanced code to replace the one she’d stolen. He would have to work harder, faster to get it finished. Even so, the loss would prove costly in the short term, a setback that England and her allies could ill afford to suffer.

No, he’d lost the cipher, and it was his responsibility to get it back, or at least do his utmost to mitigate the damage. His first duty, therefore, was to track and locate Anne Greenway.

Assuming that was even her name.

Bitter gall rose inside him at the realization. He thought he’d known her, thought he understood her and that she felt the same for him. To think he’d been on the verge of offering her marriage. Him, the confirmed bachelor brought to his knees. Well, thank God for her timing before he’d made a complete fool of himself, before he’d shown her exactly how vulnerable he’d become to her practiced wiles.

So where had she gone?

To the north, possibly to Scotland, Aggies had speculated. On her character, she’d listed her last place of employment as the Isle of Skye. Given all the lies she’d undoubtedly told, however, that was probably one as well.

Another strong possibility was France. With the cipher her goal, it was clear she had been planted in his household by the French. Now that the code was in her possession, had they smuggled her out of the country? After all, it would be nigh impossible to find her inside the war-torn country, especially without getting caught.

But it would be his pleasure to try, and worth every ounce of risk.

As he turned over the options as to her possible whereabouts, a conversation he and “Anne,” for want of a better name, had had. Their words played inside his mind.

Where does your family live?

Ambleside
, she’d answered in her lilting, musical voice.
It’s a pretty place. Lush and green with deep blue lakes and rolling hills that look as if they could go on forever.

Ambleside
.

In that unguarded moment, could she have possibly been telling the truth? Such vivid descriptions as the one she’d provided didn’t generally accompany falsehoods, particularly the sort conjured up on the spur of the moment. Had she revealed something real about herself in among all the lies and deceits she must have told?

The journey to the Lake District was two, maybe three days, hard riding from London. It would be a good place to start, and maybe he would get lucky. If he didn’t, he would continue on to Skye and see what turned up there as well. In the meantime, Aggies and his men could continue to scout the docks and shipyards along the southern coast, hoping to find someone who’d seen a woman fitting his former housekeeper’s description.

His lover as well.

He was glad of a sudden that she’d insisted on keeping their affair a secret. At the time, he hadn’t cared, but now, he was relieved. He was even more relieved that he’d had no opportunity to tell his family of his plans to wed her.

Aware of the ring that sat like a curse inside his pocket, he withdrew the box and flicked open the lid. For a long moment, he stared, studying the stone, mourning his love for her, his loss, her betrayal.

She’d made him want things he’d never thought to want. She’d made him wish for a life with her that would last them all their days. She’d shown him the possibility of a future he’d never imagined he would ever desire.

Then she’d left and taken his heart with her.

But he was done wallowing in his misery. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of caring anymore. He was a logical man, and as such, knew he would recover. He just prayed it didn’t take him the rest of his life to do it.

Staring a moment longer at the bloodred stone that now left him cold, he snapped the lid shut and closed the door on his dreams.

W
eary from the hair on the top of her head to the soles of her feet, Sebastianne trudged the last few yards to her father’s cottage near the village of Montsoreau. Her heart gave an extra beat when she rounded a bend and saw the small, greyish white stone dwelling come into view. The last rays of afternoon sun rained over the house, splintering off the small glass panes into a thousand golden starbursts of light. The aging oak front door, with its faded white paint, looked no better than when she’d left. In fact, the house hadn’t changed at all.

But I have,
she thought, with a desolate sigh.
Will I ever stop thinking about Drake? Will I ever quit missing him?

She frowned, not liking the answer.

But she was home at last, she told herself, and her family would welcome her with open arms. She needed their comfort now more than ever.

She walked past rows of wild pink rosebushes, which turned the air sugary-sweet, then along the short, pebbled path. Reaching the front door, she stopped, hesitating to turn the knob.

Should she go in and surprise them, or knock? She’d had no way of sending a message ahead to let them know of her return, so they would not be expecting her. Still, knocking on the door of her family’s home would feel odd, so she reached again and pushed it open.

Instead of the raucous cries and vociferous greetings she expected, she encountered only silence. The wide main room that served as both kitchen and living space stood empty. The deep stone fireplace was cold, the scarred pine-trestle table bare of its usual assortment of foodstuffs and dishes. The copper pots and pans that hung from the gnarled wooden rafters above the fireplace held an even deeper patina of green than she remembered. And the bundles of fresh herbs and lavender she’d gathered just before she had left still dangled upside down along the wide, main beam, looking dusty and unused.

Where are they?
she wondered, as her stomach gave a queasy flip. Had Vacheau realized what she’d done and somehow gotten here before her? Surely that was impossible, since she’d traveled ceaselessly all the way from London four days ago. Or had one of his henchmen come for them? In England and unable to write, she had no way of knowing whether they were here or not. Perhaps Vacheau had deceived her and taken them away from the beginning.

Stop it,
she told herself, gulping against the fist-sized lump lodged inside her throat.
You’re assuming the worst before you even know if you have reason.

She would walk to the village, she decided, and see if her brothers and father were there. It was quite likely they were. And if not, the villagers knew her. They would know the truth and relate it to her, whatever it might be.

Spinning on her heels she started toward the door. A rough scraping noise sounded outside. She froze dead in the center of the room as the handle began to turn.

The door opened, revealing a thin sprig of a boy with reddish brown hair that was in serious need of cutting and a pair of deep-set caramel-hued eyes. They widened in clear astonishment, his mouth dropping wide at the sight of her.

“
Sebastianne!
” he shouted, barreling across the room toward her.

She nearly lost her balance as he careened into her, his wiry arms locking like steel bands around her waist. “
Tu-es
ici!”

“
Oui,
I am here, Luc,” she said, her words thick with the tears that sprang to her eyes. Enfolding him in her arms, she hugged him to her.

After a moment, she looked up and into the gaze of Julien, the older of her two brothers at twelve years—thirteen actually, since he’d had a birthday while she had been away. He remained unmoving, staring at her with far too much seriousness for a boy his age.

She held out an arm to him and smiled, still hugging Luc against her side. The battle Julien waged showed on his face; the man in him angry that she’d left, the boy happy at her return and ready to forgive. He took a single, jerky step forward, even his body uncertain and struggling.

Suddenly, as if something broke free inside him, he raced toward her with every bit as much speed as his sibling and threw himself into her arms.

Tears slid over her cheeks as she clutched him near, cradling them both. For a long moment, she stood in the three-way embrace, savoring the joy of reunion and the relief that no harm had come to her brothers as she’d feared.

“When you weren’t here, I grew worried,” she said in rapid French, the words sounding odd and strangely rusty on her tongue. “I thought perhaps you had gone. The kitchen doesn’t look as if it’s been used in some time.”

“It hasn’t,” Julien volunteered, the old smile she remembered back on his face. “You know Papa cannot cook, and Luc and I burn everything. We almost caught the cottage on fire trying to make soup, and that’s not an easy thing to do.”

She laughed. “I am relieved the house and both of you are well. So where is Papa?”

“He will be here soon. We were at Madame Breton’s for a meal. She says since her husband died in the war, the dishes she makes are too much for her to eat on her own. So she lets us share her table. I think she is just lonely and likes the company, Papa’s in particular.”

Sebastianne digested that nugget as she loosened her arms from around her brothers and let them step back. Luc, obviously unwilling yet to be parted, slipped his hand into hers.

She gave it a squeeze.

“Well, I am back and shall cook for you all again,” she declared, deciding as she cast another glance around the room that the house needed a good cleaning as well.

Julien peered at her with his too-serious eyes. “So you’re here to stay? You won’t leave again?”

“No, never again,” she said, determined that her promise would not be a lie.

After a moment, Julien relaxed, his lanky muscles visibly unwinding in a way that left him looking younger and more like the boy he still was.

There was a scraping noise on the threshold just then that drew her attention toward the door once again. Poised in the entrance stood a slender man of middling years, a pair of round wire glasses on his nose that gave him an owlish expression. He had a shock of long, thick grey hair that he kept tied back in a queue, an affectation that belonged to a bygone era, a way of life that had all but been swept aside by years of blood and violence.

“
Ma fille,
” he said gruffly. “You have come home.”

“
Oui, Papa.
”