The Tide Watchers (24 page)

Ambleteuse

September 24, 1802

H
OLD IT HIGH AND
steady, Elise. How can I slot the spring in if you wobble the chamber?”

For almost half an hour Lisbeth had been squatting beside the rough working table that wasn't long enough to hold the propulsion chamber steady. Her arms had been raised for ten minutes. “M'sieur, are you aware how much this chamber weighs?”

“Of course, I couldn't make the calculations if I—you're wobbling the chamber again—” He pulled at the other end of the chamber, and off balance, she wobbled on her bent legs. Smothering a cry, she grabbed at the table.

“The propulsion chamber is one of a kind! We cannot afford to damage it . . .” He finally looked at her, an expression of comical guilt crossing his mobile features. “My dear, I beg your pardon. When I'm working, I forget you're injured. Is your shoulder hurting very much?”

Though the swelling had disappeared a week ago, her shoulder ached beneath the weight of the propulsion chamber she held aloft for him while he inspected its cavity. “A little,” she admitted, holding the laughter in. Brilliant and distracted, a complete gentleman yet so demanding in his work, Fulton could make her laugh when he wasn't trying—and though the work was exacting on her injured body, it was so stimulating she often forgot the time herself. After a lifetime of running away from her life, she felt as if she'd become a true part of something important, her intellect valued, her assistance needed.

He grinned with a sheepish air. “You're so useful to me, you see.
At these times I forget your arm only came out of the sling last week.”

And that it's after 3
A.M.
also?
She tried to smile, but her facial muscles refused to cooperate; her eyes watered and she yawned again. “M'sieur, my leg has a cramp.”

Fulton checked his fob and clicked his tongue. “I'm used to working at night with men who are as strong as I am and used to little sleep.” He gently took the propulsion chamber from her and laid it on the floor before he helped her to her feet.

Reveling in being upright again, she stretched her legs, arms, and back, which were all aching. She pressed her hands into the small of her back and twisted, with a luxuriant sigh.

“Go and find your bed,” he said in a muffled tone. “We can continue after breakfast.”

“Yes . . . um.” She yawned again. “Thank you, m'sieur.” Tripping over twine he'd left on the floor, she avoided his helping hands, ready to save her.

“Elise . . . I . . .”

He'd slipped into calling her by her French name. Usually he said the name with gentle concern, or with absorbed abstraction. But now he sounded husky, with intent—

She closed her eyes. Had she roused him just by stretching? Or had he felt it all along while dressing or undressing her and had hidden it until she was close to complete recovery?

Think of the mission. Think of Edmond.
She kept the shudder inside and forced herself to turn back.
Smile at him. Encourage him. Do it for Edmond.

Unfortunately, even her love for her child couldn't force the lie from her. She looked out the window, watching the swirling snowflakes landing on the glass. “
Oui,
m'sieur, may I assist you?” She cringed on hearing the cold submissiveness in her tone.

Forgive me, Edmond,
her heart whispered.

“How . . . how o-old are you?” Yes, by his stammer, she'd put him off.

She frowned. How
old
was she? She blinked, but no amount of
reasoning could make her see why he'd asked.
Tell the truth whenever you can,
the commander had said. “I'm nineteen.”

She saw the dawning horror in his eyes. She could almost see his thought,
I am twice her age.
“Almost twenty?” he asked, sounding chastened yet hopeful.

Edmond's safety relies on this mission. Fulton's a good man, attractive and kind.
But unfortunately for all her self-talk, even the image of Edmond's face in her mind didn't help. She liked Fulton very much, respected him, adored working with him—but she didn't know how to feel anything but horror at the prospect of sharing a bed with him. “I turned nineteen in August.”

“I . . .” He pulled his hands through his hair, leaving it in spikes. With his spectacles off-kilter at the end of his nose, he looked almost demented. How could she want to giggle at this awful time? “And you really have been married?”

Still holding laughter in, she shrugged, her big toe shuffling the rug's edge. “I still am married, m'sieur.”

Another hesitation. “Where are you from—originally, I mean?”

“Why would you wish to know, m'sieur? Am I not giving satisfaction? Do you want to inform my—my husband . . .” She let her voice break and she wheeled away, back to the window and the night. “I will be gone by sunrise. Just please don't find him, or tell him about me.”

“My dear girl . . .” He strode forward, but she stepped back until she was against the door, the trembling visible. “It was he that hurt you, wasn't it?”

Slowly she nodded. “More than once.”

“I'd never try to reunite you with him,” he faltered, but with sincerity. “I abhor a man who hurts the woman he's promised to love and protect, or his defenseless children.”

She jerked as if he'd slapped her.

“Elise!”

She blinked, looked at Fulton. His eyes were wide, face pale. “What did I say? Elise, my dear, I promise you are safe here . . . please don't cry.”

She hadn't realized hot tears were streaking down her cheeks.
“
Mon pardon,
m'sieur.” What was wrong with her? She'd become a regular wet goose since her injury.

“I'll get some water.” Fulton ran for the door.

She shook her head. “I'm going for a walk.” Both sentences were punctuated with hiccups but said with determination.

Turning, he blocked her way out. He looked uncertain, almost afraid. “Elise, it's so late . . . the weather—your health—I cannot countenance . . .”

“
You
countenance nothing.” Still hiccupping, she glared at him. “Outside of the work for which you pay me, my life and choices are my own.”

After a brief hesitation, he lowered his gaze. “Again, I beg your pardon.” When she moved, he stepped aside to let her pass.

She snatched up her cloak on the way out of the house; but, still encased in slippers, her feet soon became wet with the falling sleet that at this time of year came at night. Soon they were numb with cold. She reached the bush at the end of the path where the commander set the red rag, pulled it out, and wrote with the pencil she kept in her cloak.

Fulton made advances tonight. I refuse to ruin myself based on empty promises. Tell me how the rescue of my son is progressing, or I will return to Abbeville. I will not leave my son there, no matter what the consequences. I trust I am making myself clear.

DUNCAN WATCHED HER HOOD
fall back as she walked away. A slanted touch of moonlight through the heavy cloud illuminated her half-loose braid. Even in falling sleet, shrouded by her cloak and the clouded moon, she glowed like the embers of a blacksmith's forge, soft and golden.

By day she remained in hiding behind a wall no man could penetrate. But when night fell and she was alone, her inhibitions sloughed off like an unwanted skin, and she became the woman he'd seen only in snatches.

If she knew he was watching her, she'd revert to the marionette of the tavern.

Or would she?
his mind whispered, remembering the way she'd looked at him three days ago.

He shut the thought down as if it was the lid on Pandora's box.
She's not a woman, she's a valued team member. Think like the King's Man you are.

He grabbed the note and read it, nodding. Fulton saw her by day, worked with her by night. No wonder he was already ensnared. Would the bird with the broken wing by day and the unconscious siren by night fascinate the American enough to offer marriage?

Fulton's no fool. She gives herself away with every word and movement. He must already know she's a lady. He'd marry her if he knew of her family. Eddie would fund his work for life. The property near Bath her grandmother left her would make an ideal place for his work—

If he didn't sell it for funding, that is. On marriage, her property becomes his.

No, he wouldn't tell Fulton a thing about her. She deserved a chance to find a man who wanted more than work, sex, and her money. If Fulton only wanted her as a mistress—and he'd shown that by his lack of respect in his half offer—it was obvious he didn't know who she was.

If she returned to England unmarried, she'd be the one to pay the price for being a young girl deceived. In their world, women suffered the consequences for their bad choices, but rarely men—and that wasn't about to change while even so few men had the vote.

He pushed the note into his pocket. She'd made herself very clear: she wouldn't take Fulton to bed without her son's safety assured. Rescue efforts had to be redoubled.

Unconscious of his observation, Lisbeth slipped into the house. Candlelight wavered in her room, soon snuffed. Either she'd avoided Fulton or refused him her bed. Duncan wasn't surprised. Since he'd met her, he'd only seen her holding to the morals her mother raised her by. She'd been born a lady, and a lady she'd remained, no matter what Delacorte put her through. She wouldn't take Fulton to her bed for gain, or duty. Perhaps not even for her child.

He wrote on the back of the note:

At last report, Delacorte has half a dozen hired men surrounding the house. Cal and his men have had no chance to take the boy, but Cal managed to speak to his wet nurse. She is willing to come with the child. Cal has four men, and given Delacorte's recent reverses, I doubt he can afford to keep six men there for long.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to write the next words.

My brother has sworn to save your son. If you do not trust me, madame, trust him.

Rue de Miromesnil, Faubourg Saint-Honoré, France

September 24, 1802

G
EORGY FLUNG HERSELF INTO
her dressing-table chair and unpinned her hair. It had been another long night at the Tuileries. She longed for John to come to her, to hold her and say he was going to end this madness. But it was night; he wouldn't risk her reputation that way, or give Napoleon any reason to suspect her.

At least Mama's blatant matchmaking attempts to men of the highest estate worked in Georgy's favor. John, a duke, had entry to the house at any decent time, but Camelford, a mere baron, couldn't get time alone with Georgy. Not that he was courting her. No, he'd made it very clear all he wanted was to discover what she'd learned.

So while Camelford kicked his heels, getting madder than a hornet by the day, she and John spent hours talking, laughing, playing games, and exchanging information.

“I'm no agent for the British government, just someone who may enter the Tuileries any night I choose. Because of my unique position as Francis's brother, I have a perceived right to watch over you,” he'd told her on his first visit. “Even Napoleon accepts it. That's how it was put to me, and why I made a sudden decision to come to Paris.”

Though the admission hurt a little, Georgy felt the warmth fill her cheeks. “I'm glad you came, for whatever reason,” she'd murmured, unable to look at him.

“I, too,” he'd said softly, and the words felt more intimate than a touch. “I wish to always be honest with you. But for now it must be this way, Georgiana. You will be the new interest of the first consul, and I your brother-protector and hopeless lover.”

The word
lover
made her blush harder. “You know . . . Francis and I . . .”

“I know. Francis told me.” He took her hand and patted it, smiling. “It's quite all right.”

Night after night they played the charade at the Tuileries. Napoleon was too busy to see her through the day, and she assured him she didn't expect it, though he sent her several exquisite gifts. Friendly from the first evening, Madame Bonaparte invited her to several gatherings. When there, Josephine asked the oddest questions, which Georgy always tried to answer with truth. John attended these functions also, though he rarely approached her, and never for private conversation.

By night she was Napoleon's, seated beside him at dinner, dancing with him as much as French society dictated was proper. Eugene de Beauharnais had faded into the background, finding another rich young lady to pursue. And the whispers had spread across the Channel to the London gossip rags, which all raved about a certain, half-naked Lady G—G— (
ooh, delicious, my dear! Could the G be Godiva
?) becoming the next Madame Bonaparte.

And all to no purpose: Napoleon told her nothing worth repeating.

But tonight she finally had something to tell. She ached for John with a fierce longing. If only he could sense it—

A tap at her window filled her with unexpected joy. Could it be—surely it must—? She ran over, threw up the sash—then her heart tumbled to her slippered feet, seeing the harsh-featured face glaring up at her. “I hear you have something to tell me, Lady Georgiana. I suggest you come down, or I'll come up to you.”

He didn't need to say more. To get what he wanted, he'd ruin her reputation without a second thought. She nodded and slipped out of her room. The footman she'd suspected of being in Camelford's pay opened the front door for her, handing her a cloak.

She threw it on and pulled the hood over her loosened hair—but even if she were discovered with him
en déshabillé,
she'd accept ruin rather than be forced to wed a boor like Camelford.

He met her within three steps of leaving the house, and grabbing
her arm, pulled her out into the middle of the street. Looking down his nose at her in the light of the streetlamps, he looked terrifying. “Well?”

She lifted her brows. “What makes you think I have anything to tell?”

Camelford sighed harshly. “Don't try my patience, Lady Georgiana. I'm not telling you how I know, only that I do. Do you have a date?”

She shook her head.

His face grew darker. “Then I'll get word to the first consul that you've been meeting the Duke of Bedford by day, and you're a suspected agent of the British Alien Office.”

The threat wasn't empty. Camelford didn't care about her, or John, or the British Alien Office; he cared only about his agenda. “Why should he listen to you? Why should he believe you, after Apr—” She faltered there, for in his face was a promise of violence. And in his fists.

“I don't care either way. He'll get rid of you just in case, and will probably toss out every English visitor to France on the strength of it. How will my cousin feel about that?” When she hesitated, torn, he snapped, “The famous Madame Jeanne Recamier is the British spy known as The Incomparable. I'd wager Boney doesn't know her identity here either—but by Jupiter, he will. I'll take out a half page in all the Paris newssheets if I must.”

Her resistance collapsed. She was no agent or
femme fatale,
just a girl alone and out of her depth. Quivering, hating him more than she'd ever hated anyone, she turned and hurried inside the house, feeling soiled . . . and a failure to her country.

“DAMN IT!” CAMELFORD MUTTERED,
seeing his best chance at discovery fleeing into her house—and guts to garters, the stupid chit would take care never to be alone again.

Women were a waste of air in the world, apart from breeding the next generation. They ought to be confined to the house until and after they married, not interfering in matters beyond their comprehension.

“Lord Camelford,” came a low voice from behind. Camelford whirled, pulling out his stick sword from his cane—

How it came to be lying on the ground three feet behind him, he didn't know, but he looked at the skinny rat who had approached him with more wary respect. “What is it you want?” he snapped, rubbing his throbbing wrist.

“My master would like a few words with you,” the rat said softly, his eyes peering up and down the road.

About to consign the rat master to hell, Camelford forced himself to swallow the words, and ask, “Who is your master?”

The rat smiled. “He said to tell you he has the date and time you seek. Come.” And he led the unresisting Camelford onto a nondescript coach, heading to the north of the Île de la Cité.