The Tide Watchers (20 page)

Zephyr sighed. “Cut the beef-witted knight act! She's Delacorte's leftovers, and a bloody tavern wench into the bargain. Fulton will give his toys to Boney to play with if we don't win him. Certainly he's both moral and an idealist, but his Achilles heel is pretty young things. I
met the girl two years ago. She's pretty enough, but an impertinent chit, and too clever by half. We have to disarm Fulton before he starts suspecting her. We need her to play the pity card—the bird with a broken wing.”

“Her left arm is in a sling, and she has bruising and stitches on her face from a shot-out window. She had a slight case of wound fever. Two men beat her and tried to rape her a month ago. Her husband was brutal to her, and currently men terrify her. Will that be enough, or should I do something more drastic?”

Though he'd kept his tone even, Zephyr chuckled. “Sits the wind in that quarter, Tidewatcher? I'd thought you impervious to women.”

“The wind sits nowhere. I owe a life debt to Eddie,” Duncan said coldly.

Zephyr shrugged. “Very well, her current damage will do. Fulton's blathered on about compassion for the suffering masses. He'll take her in.” He turned his hands back to the fire. “He's a closet snob, you know, like most republicans. If he finds out she's a wealthy baronet's daughter, he'll wed her, hoping Eddie will fund his work. Given her ruin in English society, she's probably best off in America.” He threw Duncan another sideways glance. “You can't kill Delacorte until we know whose coat he wears. He's the unknown quantity in all this. If we find out whom he's working for, we may get what they're doing and why. Is that clear?”

“We need not arrange the girl's future.” Duncan forced an amused look, but he knew when he was being bear-led. “She may have a say in that.”

Zephyr shrugged again. “Is she well enough to go within the week?”

“Ship's doctor wants her to rest for another few days, and she needs training before we can throw her into the mission.”

“If the girl's unequal to the task, I'll send another woman. But Boney's conscripting men to this new army. Men are pouring by the thousands in for the food and clothing he gives them, and the pay that helps their families. If you're right about your
bête noire,
or the assassination attempt, someone must be in place at Ambleteuse within a fortnight.”

Damn it, Zephyr had boxed him right into this corner, leaving him no choice. “I'm fairly sure she'll agree to infiltrate the house, but I won't force her on bedding Fulton.”

Having taken his stance for granted, Windham nodded. “Stay in the region with her, and play Lancelot to the girl's Guinevere if it amuses you. Just make certain she fulfills the objective. Pitt and Grenville have given us carte blanche on this matter. Other teams will be coming in as well, including Smith and Wright with some new agents. We must know what's happening in Boulogne, and get Fulton and his toys on English soil before Boney changes his mind.”

So carte blanche meant that spending money on Fulton was absurd, but a young woman's ruin was acceptable? Zephyr's hypocrisy over women tolled like a funerary bell in Duncan's head—but this plan with the girl was all he had. He'd been given leeway to protect her. It was all he could hope for. Keeping his voice neutral, he said, “Consider it done, sir.”

Another nod. “The tide's turning. If Boney finds out I've been in French waters, we'll be in the basket and no mistake.” Windham strode to the door, staggering as another wave hit the hull. “Your leg's injured. Fool, why didn't you sit?” Before Duncan could answer, Zephyr was gone.

The autumn night was shrouded by a thick, cold sea mist. Duncan made his way up to the deck, watching the other black-painted ship disappear. When night fell, it enveloped their ships until they were invisible. Here he felt anonymous, without name, heart, or conscience—a King's Man—and Britain's safety was paramount, even above loyalty to Eddie, who'd been father and mentor for half a lifetime. Here he could betray his mentor's daughter, the woman he'd once hoped to marry, with only a pang of regret.

The Tuileries, Paris

September 6, 1802

I
T WAS ALMOST EIGHT.
The first consul would make his appearance at the levee any minute.

Georgy's new gown was a lemon-hued watered silk, high necked and in no way tight, but the material had been dampened so the silk clung to every curve. She felt almost naked, and by the behind-the-fans stares and whispers of her compatriots, they thought she looked it. Her heart was pounding, her breathing rapid. She'd visited the Tuileries for months now, but she'd been an innocent, an ingénue, beneath notice. Her appearance had never been as vital as tonight.

You can do this. For Lizzy.

Fortunately, Mama had been an avid admirer of Napoleon since the Red Sea was said to have parted for him in '97—but how far would that admiration go? Knowing nothing of her daughter's mission, would the Duchess of Gordon create a scene?

“Isn't it rather ridiculous thinking that I, a girl of nineteen, can help you?” she'd asked when The Incomparable had outlined Georgy's expected mission.

“Nonsense, Lady Georgiana; you're perfect for our current needs, and your station puts you above suspicion.” She'd had the cheek to grin. “What could be more natural than a well-known, charming girl like you flirting with Napoleon? Your charm is famed throughout the Polite World, my dear. He would be flattered, intrigued. Only smile if whispers circulate about the two of you, but say nothing. Everyone knows his wife is barren, and he's desperate for an heir. And if you hear any indiscreet whispers, as men tend to do when they're infatuated . . .”

She'd frowned. “What if he suspects me? Or expects more than I am willing to give? How would insulting Napoleon with a refusal help my friend?”

“Why should he suspect you? You're being nonsensical. You're a duke's daughter. He won't expect you to become his paramour.” She'd sounded reassuring but with a thread of impatience beneath. “You will never be alone with him. You won't know who our people are, but they'll know you. And your friend's mission is in the most dangerous region of France. Things you discover could help her to evacuate at the right time.”

Georgy had blinked and frowned. “I see,” she'd said, hating to think of Lizzy in such danger—but if Lizzy could do it, so could she. “All of Paris knows that the Viscomte de Beauharnais and I are good friends.”

“You are concerned he will be hurt?” The Incomparable had asked, her eyes curiously hollow. “It is most commendable of you.”

Georgy opened her mouth and closed it before the words could slip out.
Not hurt—disgusted.
“Lady Josephine is his mother,” she'd said quietly.

“Who has been less than faithful to Napoleon, just as he has been to her” was the impatient response. “We are in Paris, where people are practical over such matters.”

“But—”

“If you cannot do this, Lady Georgiana, please let me know now. Matters are at such a pass between our nations that we need the information as soon as may be—most especially your friend Elizabeth's team. You are the best candidate, but there are others . . .”

“Are things so bad?” Georgy asked, disturbed more than she'd cared to admit by the woman's simple nod. “But—we are at peace . . .”

“An uneasy peace indeed.” The Incomparable was just as quiet and serious. “We know there is a plan afoot sometime in the autumn to assassinate the first consul. If he dies,
le bon Dieu
alone knows who will replace him—probably one of the power-hungry generals who make a fortune in war. Or France could return to a Jacobin rule, which will
again cause mayhem throughout Europe. Your friend is part of a team in place near Boulogne-sur-Mer, where the assassination is planned, but we need the date confirmed.”

“How will my, ah”—she felt herself blush—“charming the first consul help us?”

“He won't confirm when he goes to the Channel Coast, yet the assassins know. We have to play catch-as-catch-can with men whose allegiance to our cause ought to be unquestioned, but they have found funding elsewhere. As such, their true loyalties are now unknown.”

Georgy tried to follow the implications, but for the first time in a sophisticated life, she felt like the innocent she really was. How she wished Papa were here! The Duke of Gordon was, as the saying went, awake on every suit; he'd know how to explain all this to her so she understood. “We need Napoleon to stay alive?”

She felt relieved when she got a nod in reply—but the woman's exquisite face was troubled. “The Austrians and Russians want him dead and replaced by a Bourbon monarch. Prussia and Britain, not to mention Belgium and the Netherlands, cannot afford that. For now at least, while he offers treaties, Napoleon is the best chance of achieving peace in Europe. He has brought harmony and prosperity to France and calmed the masses since he's improved the economy and employment for the average Frenchman. Boys are off the streets and in schools. The guillotine has lost more than half its yearly custom.”

“I see . . . I think,” she said with the frankness that was her greatest charm. “So my task is to get the date for you.”

The Incomparable nodded. “Also, if Madame Bonaparte chooses to adopt you . . . let her.”

Political waters already churning turned murky, staining the air around her so Georgy couldn't see. Suddenly she felt not nineteen, but nine. “Why?”

That, it appeared, was where confidence ended. To her credit, The Incomparable didn't murmur platitudes, but told her it was best if she didn't know; and that was the end of the matter. She gave her further information on many other matters political, but not regarding
Josephine. The Incomparable had left her at that, telling her to prepare herself to meet the first consul.

So here she was in the Tuileries, a downy duckling flying into a thunderstorm. What if Napoleon—

“Lady Georgiana, I know we haven't yet been introduced . . .”

She gritted her teeth, thinking of Camelford's visit, his demands that she find out the same information the British government wanted: the date of Napoleon's supposed journey to Boulogne-sur-Mer. “I swear, if one more person says that to me this week . . .” She turned her head, ready to cold-shoulder whoever now wanted something from her.

And froze, a ship at half mast. Knowing who this man was before he said it. He was younger, more handsome than her dear friend Francis, but with the undeniable Russell face. Dressed in all the male rigmarole expected at the Tuileries, yet managing to look understated and elegant. She sank into an automatic curtsy. “Your Grace, what a surprise to see you in Paris.”

“Please call me John.” The sixth Duke of Bedford smiled and bowed, then took her outstretched hand in his. “Your mother came to me at the worst time, deep in grief for Francis. But it seemed my brother knew he was ill. A letter came after his death, asking me to . . . look out for you. So here I am, Lady Georgiana, asking your forgiveness for my former rudeness in not meeting you when your mother asked it. I also extend my friendship, if you wish it.”

His smile was warm, but Georgy couldn't smile back. She'd never been so aware of her buckteeth, or so humiliated that her dress was close to indecent. With a look, she forgot he was the new Duke of Bedford. She cared what
John
thought of her. One look at him, and she'd tumbled into love.

The trumpets sounded, and the chamber quieted. The doors flung open, and the man she'd met only in passing came up the steps.

Could the timing be worse? And yet—no; for now she had someone else to fight for, to protect with her mission. Lizzy was on the Channel Coast, and John was here. With a half smile of apology she
whispered, “Of course . . . John. But now—I beg your pardon, I have something I must do.”

“I know,” was the duke's surprising answer. A brief kiss on the back of her hand. “Your mother's approaching, and this is not the time for explanations. I merely wanted to tell you there's no need to look so frightened. You're not alone, Georgiana.”

He turned and disappeared into the crowd.

“The First Consul,” the guard shouted.

Georgy stared after John's retreating back, everything making sense. What other class of people could gather information from France's new royal family, at the royal palace? Who else would be accepted in a place where Napoleon vetted every servant?

“Georgy, what is Bedford doing here, approaching you without an introduction?” Mama hissed the moment she reached her, her fine eyes alight with ambition.

Mama's hopes for her didn't matter. John was here for
her,
and it gave her strength. She put a finger to her lips and turned back as the leader of the French people came up the stairs.

Why did Napoleon always appear taller than he was? The melancholy face was pale—too pale for a soldier—yet it was still handsome and strong, with gray eyes, chestnut hair, a wide, intelligent brow, and a half smile, showing everything and giving away nothing. He had no affectations of dress as many men of his status did. No medals adorned his breast, though as Europe's greatest soldier since Charlemagne, he had many; his cravat was the finest quality muslin, but tied in a style of simple elegance beneath a cutaway blue coat and black knee breeches. His hat, of which he seemed fond enough to bring in one hand, was a plain black bicorn with a small tricolor pinned to it. He was slim, almost thin, but didn't pad his stockings as so many did, allowing his broad chest and shoulders to proclaim him a man of standing.

He didn't look like any soldier she'd ever met—he'd fit easily into the intellectual crowd. Yet something about him drew the gaze of every lady in the room. Were their pulses pounding, like hers? But theirs would be from excitement. Hers was from sheer terror that a
nineteen-year-old girl had to beckon to herself the greatest personage on the Continent—a famous, married man.

You're not alone, Georgiana.

Napoleon has a lovely smile.
She turned a copy of it onto him as he moved down the room toward her, a half smile like his, giving away nothing. She let her dark-gold hair, big eyes, and fine figure speak for themselves.

He never passes a pretty blonde,
The Incomparable had said—was it from experience? Like some kind of whirling dervish Napoleon was facing her, taking her breath away as he bowed over her hand, kissing the skin of her knuckles. “Lady Georgiana, is it not?” he asked in French only slightly blurred with the Italian, giving it a warm richness.

Ignoring her mother's silent frustration—she'd have to think up a marvelous excuse to Mama for garnering the first consul's attention when the Duchess of Gordon could not—she curtsied deeply. “It is an honor, my lord Consul, that you know me. Yes, I am Georgiana Gordon.” She deliberately left out her title. Though it was said Napoleon liked to mingle with members of the
haut ton,
he didn't like being ranked beneath anyone, particularly a woman. So though she introduced him to Mama, she merely said, “My mother, my lord.” Born a mere baronet's daughter, Mama liked advertising her elevated rank of duchess a little too much. Neither did she mention that her friends called her Georgy: a familiarity that might give her away to a man as paranoid and fast thinking as Napoleon. Besides, it was said the famous warrior despised anything he could win without a fight.

Taking her other hand in his, he lifted her back up. Peeping at him, she saw the half smile, those gray eyes crinkled at the corners. “You are a friend of my wife's son,
non
?”

She smiled and nodded. “The viscomte is a charming young man.”

The smile on his face grew no larger, but she had the oddest feeling it did. “Then it behooves us to know each other,
oui
? Come dine with us, including your charming mother. Then we shall talk, Georgiana Gordon.”

Though he'd said nothing untoward, she trembled inside.
Whether it was nerves or a physical reaction to a man who was more a force of nature than human, Georgy didn't know. But after a swift look around—John was there, smiling at her—she allowed the first consul to sweep her along the line of admirers to the double-leaved doors that led to the dining hall.

As they moved, she glanced at Napoleon's wife. Though Josephine was on the arm of a handsome young soldier, her gaze touched Georgy in passing. The pity she saw in the older woman's eyes startled her. A tiny shake of the beautifully coifed head—was it sadness or warning?—and then it was gone.

If Madame Bonaparte chooses to adopt you, let her.
Why the command disturbed her so, she couldn't say—but she had the feeling she had, indeed, just been adopted in silence.

Napoleon seated her to his right, beside the great English politician and orator Charles James Fox—a singular honor. Her mother he placed two seats down from his wife, beside the Duke of Bedford. Again John smiled at her before turning his full attention to his dinner partners.

Though she bent all her mystery and charm to winning Napoleon's admiration, she felt an invisible presence hovering behind her, as if she trod violent waters in this thin gown.

“THOUGH I AM AS
much of a proponent of human freedoms as you, only think of the upheaval it would cause in established society, my lord!”

Sitting at the head of a former table of kings, his wife on one side, a duke's daughter on the other, and twenty-eight more notables of France and England filling each side, Bonaparte frowned at Charles Fox. “In England, yes, it would; in France, interracial marriages have caused little concern. Upheaval is good when existing systems only work in favor of certain levels of society, leaving the greater population in need. We must do away with all differences between the inhabitants of the two worlds—of blending the black and white and having universal peace!”