The Tide Watchers (33 page)

“That's why he set the town against me. With all of them watching my every move, Papa couldn't send someone to Abbeville without him knowing. That's why you took on the Gaston Borchonne identity.” Her face came alive, brighter as she absorbed each new implication. “He set us up for LeClerc's murder because Alain suspected you'd been sent by my father. He needed to hide his crimes before they became public. If the European Tribunal discovered his acts, not even Bonaparte or Fouché could protect him. They'd make him the acceptable sacrifice.”

“Neither can afford to be seen as Delacorte's accomplices.” He couldn't keep the wonder from his voice. She hadn't even been with him when he'd worked out that Fouché had kept Delacorte in Abbeville after the espionage rings at Le Boeuf came to light. Good God, she was brilliant.

“Alain stood to lose everything,” she went on. “People have been killed for far less since the Revolution. So he made up the story of my being a whore, took Edmond, and set the entire town to watching me to protect himself. It's why he keeps chasing us. He has no choice.” In the soft firelight, the wonder on her face fascinated him. “I thought he hated me because my father didn't love me enough to let my husband in the door. But it was all just a cover-up.”

Alarm bells tolled in Duncan's head again. “It was to punish your father, too.”

Like dawn breaking after a black night, her charming, one-dimpled smile came alive. “I'm free of him. Even Edmond—he could have told me when I was pregnant, and I'd have married him for the baby's sake. But he made his son illegitimate and didn't care.”

Before he knew what she was about, she'd jumped from the chair and, balancing each step as the ship pitched, bent and kissed his cheek. “I told you the night we met that you were a godsend, and you've been just that. I don't
care
if you never tell me anything about yourself—”

“My birth name is Damien,” he said harshly, hating her gratitude when he didn't deserve it, “and I haven't finished.”

Instead of seeming cowed, she tilted her head, considering him. “Damien? No . . . I'm sorry if I seem rude, but it doesn't
fit
.”

How odd that she could make him smile even now. “I've been calling myself Duncan since I was fourteen.”

“So that's why you could introduce yourself as Duncan, yet still tell me it wasn't your real name. I thought you were lying to me.” She nodded wisely, looking like a lovable owl. “Yes, Duncan suits you perfectly. But how did you—” She bit her lip. “I'm sorry, it's not my concern.”

“I was christened Damien Urquhart Charles Aylsham. I took the
first letter of my names and added the ‘n.'” He smiled as she nodded again, innocent and wise—and suddenly he knew he'd never intended to let her marry Fulton. “Does the name mean anything to you?”

“Should it?” she asked, frowning.

Blowing out a breath, Duncan said the words he'd refused to speak since the night he met her. “I thought your father might have told you the name of the man who offered you marriage.”

Her eyes widened, her mouth fell open, and the color drained from her cheeks.

He stood and made a formal bow. “I'm the heir to the Annersley barony—the man you ran off with Delacorte to avoid meeting.”

Before she could speak, he bowed once again and kissed her knuckles. “Since I dare to hope you no longer find my offer repulsive, I ask again, this time in person. Miss Sunderland, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

Walmer Castle, Kent, England

October 30, 1802

I
DON'T LIKE THIS,
Pitt.”

Former Prime Minister William Pitt, known as Pitt the Younger, felt his brows lift. Shivering, he pulled his chair closer to the fire. As current Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports he'd been given Walmer Castle as his home, and he loved it; but it was drafty and cold, and the Channel wind roared through the walls even in summer. In the colder months it was unbearable. “
You
don't like it, my lord.” The emphasis carried volumes of incredulity.

“No, I damn well don't.” From the other side of the tea table, Marquess Cornwallis drained his tea. He was too old a campaigner to care what Pitt thought of him. In America, India, and Ireland he'd performed tasks few could stomach, and as British ambassador to France until three weeks ago, he had been well rewarded for his unswerving loyalty to British interests. “I was looking forward to my retirement after being recalled from Paris—but like it or not, I'm temporary Lord Constable of Ireland until they find a replacement for Whitworth. If there's insurrection on my watch, I ought to expose it, not sit on it like a chicken waiting for it to hatch.”

Pitt hid the grin at the mental vision Cornwallis had engendered: a fat, self-satisfied chicken indeed, in his wig and the fashionable tight coat that he could only fit with a corset, the kind made for the Prince of Wales. As he shifted in the chair, the corset creaked ominously.

“Appropriate action will come at the right time. It's necessary to let this plot . . . mature, shall we say?”

“Why?” Cornwallis demanded as he took the delicate cream cake offered him.

Covering his aching knees with a second blanket, Pitt eyed the marquess with secret envy. When was the last time he could eat without care? Irritable, he drained the port in his glass. No point in repining the hand he'd been dealt.

Apart from a lifted brow, Lord Cornwallis didn't react. Everyone knew his proclivity for port had begun as early in life as fourteen. “The French and Irish are collaborating again.”

“Of course they are. They're both Catholic and want this republican rule by the rabble. All the more reason to expose an Irish plot right away.”

Bulldog Cornwallis,
Pitt thought, with an affection he felt for few outside his family. “‘There is a limit at which forbearance ceases to be a virtue,'” he quoted.

“Edmund Burke's words. Good man for an Irish. Why?”

Pitt knew better than to think he was asking about the famous Irish statesman. “I believe this insurrection is an old song resung.”

“Which song?”

“Seventeen ninety-eight.”

Cornwallis stared. “French invasion via Ireland again? I thought we'd finished with those tomfool plots in 1801 when Nelson went into Boulogne.”

And had his arse soundly kicked.
Pitt shrugged. “Boulogne's blockaded by land and sea. Our agents are having the devil of a time getting in, and two or three of our men have already been killed. Something's going on there, my lord, during a peace Boney engineered.”

Cornwallis frowned. “Boney pulling strings behind the scenes I'll accept, but you must have compelling evidence to ask me to risk going behind Addington's back.”

But he looked interested. Though Pitt had retired on ethical grounds a year ago, the day was near when Prime Minister Addington, a good man given to panic, would desert the sinking ship. Then the
king, still offended with Pitt over his stance on Catholic emancipation and his friend Wilberforce's public passion over the abolition of slavery, would beg his return.

Pitt believed passionately in good government. Power by the people was asking for trouble when they didn't know what to do with it. The crazed slaughter during the French Revolution and the Terror were proof positive. Boney was a brilliant commander of troops but knew little of politics or statecraft. France needed someone bred to the task of government. “Word from the Archbishop of Narbonne and the Comte d'Artois was confirmed through reliable agents in France. There was a failed attempt to kill Bonaparte yesterday. Most of the conspirators disappeared before the day, but a massive cache of weapons was found.”

Cornwallis snorted. “He has so many demmed spies and sharpshooters and guards no assassin can reach him, not even that Infernal Machine in 1800. What makes this plot different?”

“When Boney returned to Paris, he insulted Fox again at the Tuileries, accusing Britain of harboring assassins at the embassy. The weapons were found at Raoul Gaillard's house. O'Keefe was also implicated.”

Cornwallis was fast to catch on. “The Gaillard brothers want the little grinder dead, I grant you—the silly gudgeons made their feelings public on the subject—but why would Boney alienate the Irish by naming O'Keefe . . . ah.” Cornwallis nodded. “The Act of Union makes him British—and he has known ties to the Alien Office.” He drummed his fingers on the table before taking another cake. “He's alive. So Boney's using this as a diversion. The question is why.”

Relieved Cornwallis had grabbed the plot by the throat—age certainly hadn't dimmed his sharp mind—Pitt nodded. “I'm sure you know, my lord.”

“Boney made the plot fail at the last moment, confiscated the weapons, and accused the British via O'Keefe, knowing Addington will panic, send every troop to Dublin, and recall Nelson from the Channel to prove he's keeping to the Amiens Treaty,” Cornwallis murmured.

“Meanwhile, Boney sails his
Grande Armée
across the Channel and
lands wherever he chooses on our coast instead of risking the Irish Sea again. Probably he's hoping it's
our
ships that get wrecked this time.” Pitt offered the lord constable a fourth cake, which the marquess took with a self-effacing grin.

Every man had his Achilles heel.

“‘When bad men combine, the good must work together,'” Cornwallis said, quoting Burke again. “Addington makes decisions based on fear and panic. Boney can't be blind to that. Well done, Pitt. I'm on board. So what's happening in Boulogne?”

“We don't know yet. So far the European Tribunal inspectors have only been invited to the Mediterranean ports, and our spies have found just a few ships built at any port in France. Seems they've only built the agreed-upon number of warships. We have a team combing the Channel Coast, unofficially of course.”

“Is it unofficial to prevent untimely war? Or because your cousin was part of the conspiracy?” Cornwallis asked softly.

Pitt held in the shudder. Nobody of good birth and breeding dared admit the head of their family was a madman, especially when one was in politics—but Thomas's acts were as well known as they were erratic, even before his latest assassination attempt and capture. For all Camelford's obsession with birth and breeding, Pitt couldn't remember the last time he'd acted the gentleman and kept his violent little peccadilloes to himself. As the saying went, he might as well have tied his garter in public.

Though he rarely felt warm these days, Pitt felt his cheeks heat. “That, also. Boney captured him just outside Boulogne. No one knows where Thomas is now. My cousin Anne . . .”

Cornwallis waved a hand. “Shall I send my brother a note to ask if he'll send a patrol or two to the right region, perhaps send a few good men to go discreetly hunting for the prison that holds Camelford?”

Pitt's face broke into a rare smile. He couldn't have asked, that wouldn't be playing the game; but Cornwallis's offer of his admiral brother's influence to help find his cousin was a gift he desperately needed. “Thank you, my lord.”

“So what else do you want me to do?”

Relieved to leave the subject behind—they both knew what had to be done, but one had to play the game—Pitt shrugged. “Let the Frogs think we've swallowed this.”

Cornwallis's puff-cheeked countenance lit with his grin. “What am I to do?”

“Keep sending the troops to chase the usual suspects—but somehow your soldiers don't find them. Keep Dublin Castle manned and ready, but make certain it's as discreet as possible. Play the arrogant old fool making bumbling mistakes. They're bound to have their spies inside the castle.”

The rheumy eyes twinkled. “I've played that part quite well before. I can see how history will paint me! What will you do?”

“The vital work now is being done by Windham's people.”

Cornwallis tapped the side of his nose as he stood, signaling the end of the meeting. “So I'm guessing this meeting never occurred.”

“What meeting, my lord? Few people even know you inhabit Dublin Castle this month. I certainly didn't invite anyone to Walmer.”

The marquess chuckled and grasped Pitt's hand. “You'll do, lad. I'll be back in Dublin by morning. Don't chafe too much during this lull, or watch the ocean too hard. Figureheads look pretty, but in a storm, those who steer the ships into safe waters are the ones remembered.”

After Cornwallis was gone, Pitt thought about his analogy. This was but a lull before war, and Britain couldn't have a mere figurehead leader. A good man, Addington wasn't built for hard decisions. He was already bending. Soon he'd break, the government would collapse, and the king would have to give power back to Pitt . . . on the right terms.

Thomas must be out of France before that happened. When war came, it couldn't be a Pitt that started it.

With a weary smile he sat at the desk by the window of his library and wrote a note to his old friend William Wilberforce. On the surface, he asked after his wife Barbara's health; she was in confinement for the fourth time. But if a few words slipped in that resurrected Wilberforce's passion for the abolition of slavery and Catholic emanci
pation, it wouldn't do any harm. It would also make Fox very happy.

Pitt needed to be ready, and he needed men of heart and courage on both sides of politics to stand with him.

Lisbeth looked down at the hand holding hers, his head bowed over it, lips touching her skin; but it was as if he'd spoken Swahili to her. “I don't understand.”

He looked up. “It's simple, Lisbeth. I offered you marriage eighteen months ago. I offer it again now.”

Her free hand wandered to her brow. “You'd go so far to secure
Papillon
for Britain?”

He let out a short laugh. “If you like, I'll sign everything you own back to you on our wedding day. I'll have the papers drawn up when we reach Jersey. I'll never own
Papillon,
in any case. Fulton's deed makes you its owner for life, no matter your marital status, and I was a signatory to the deed. Does that satisfy you that I'm not plotting against you in this?”

She shook her head. “No. None of this makes sense. Commander, I—”

“I think we've gone past Commander and madame, or even Miss Sunderland,” he said, with a strange smile. “Call me Duncan, Lisbeth.”

His sudden desire for intimacy between them was one change too many in her life. She shook her head. “If you're a baron's heir, you can't be linked to a woman like me. I'd ruin your chances at politics. Society wouldn't accept me.”

He stilled for a moment, then released her hand and sat back at the chair opposite her. “I couldn't care less about society or going into politics.” He moved back into the chair until his face disappeared into shadow, the firelight a dancing mask across his features. “I told you I don't see you that way. You were pushed into your situation, and that was mostly my fault. I should have met you before making you an offer.”

“Yes, you should.” Her fingers smoothed absently at her frown. “Why now?”

He tilted his head but said nothing, watching her closely. Knowing what he wanted, she lifted her chin and waited in turn.

He acknowledged the power play with a small smile. “You learn quickly.” When she still didn't speak, he nodded. “I wanted you to know you have an option other than Fulton.”

A disbelieving laugh burst from her. “What am I, a chess piece in a private battle between you?” She wouldn't tell him Fulton had made his proposal days ago, even with the scandal of divorce, as disgraceful as that was in the eyes of almost any society.

As soon as Fulton discovered she was still in truth Miss Sunderland, he'd be searching out rings and churches—and she wasn't sure how to feel about it.

She'd spent her rare quiet moments in the past few days trying to find a reason why Fulton had proposed. That he desired her was obvious; they worked well together—but his passion for invention was paramount. To gain vital funding, Fulton had to live within the rules of accepted society. It would have destroyed his career to wed a woman of a lower class, or a divorced woman. So somehow she'd revealed that she was a lady by birth, and her father a wealthy man. It was the only possible reason she could find for him to want to marry her.

The commander—Tidewatcher, Damien, Duncan—was a baron's heir. No matter what his finances were, he could have looked far higher for a wife, even before she was ruined. So why was he renewing the offer? Despite the Stewart brothers' presence in his life, he seemed an isolated man. His surname alone told her there was a history he wasn't telling her.

He always spoke of her father with deep respect, affection—and knowledge. “Are you making the offer to please my father?” It felt right—yet the hurt of it went deeper than she wanted to admit.

“If I did at first, Lisbeth, it was before I knew you. Now, when Eddie wouldn't blame me for walking away, I'm offering again because I want to.”

It was an answer of sorts, true in its way; yet there was something
he hadn't told her. But when hadn't that been the case? The man ate and drank secrets like ambrosia and nectar. “Why?”