Velvet (47 page)

“We shall enlist the help of Spain,” Napoleon announced, “We will suggest to her a partition of Portugal. That will bring Portugal to heel. Champagny, send a message to the Spanish king, inviting him to send emissaries to Fontainebleau for a secret convention next month. We shall hold court there.”

Talleyrand turned back to his contemplation of the garden beneath the window. The English government needed to know what Napoleon was up to now. The subjugation of Portugal was only an excuse for gaining French control of the entire Iberian Peninsular. Napoleon might well deceive the Spaniards with his offers of false friendship, but they’d discover the treachery of their assumed ally once they gave him free passage across their country to gain access to Portugal. Once in, Napoleon would secure the most important strategic positions and they’d never see the back of him.

The English couldn’t afford to stand by while the Peninsular was peacefully incorporated into the French Empire and the killer blockade extended to its ports.

Gabrielle was now married to her spymaster, and Fouché was beside himself. The policeman had a long reach, but he couldn’t be revenged on Gabrielle without jeopardizing his uneasy alliance with Talleyrand, an alliance he needed at the moment more than he needed revenge for being duped. While Gabrielle remained in England, she would be safe.

Safe and perfectly placed to be useful, her godfather reflected, if she could be persuaded.

He’d send the intelligence to her, suggesting she pass it on to the right quarters. She was clear-headed and pragmatic; he couldn’t imagine she’d refuse to do again what she’d once done so successfully. She would see that she would only be helping her friends and her husband’s country that was now her own.

Gabrielle leaned back against the stone seat of the garden bench, Talleyrand’s encoded letter lying open on her lap. The ground at her feet was a carpet of copper leaves that still wafted down from the beech tree behind her. The air was sharp with the acrid smell of burning leaves from the gardener’s bonfire, reminding her of roasting chestnuts and eating buttered toast on winter afternoons before blazing log fires. Comforting, secure images of childhood in the DeVane schoolroom.

Damn Talleyrand!
Damn this goddamned war! She folded the letter and pushed it into the pocket of her pelisse. Her godfather had offered no suggestions as to ow she was to pass on the information, merely reiterated that his identity must be kept absolutely secret. The envelope had been addressed in a feminine hand and had arrived on the London mail coach. There was nothing to connect it with the author of the letter.

She shivered. It was getting cold, and the evening star was already visible in the metallic sky above the river. She stood up and began to walk back to the house.

She could always ignore the letter.

She kicked at a pile of leaves, and suddenly a memory rose as vivid and clear as if it had been yesterday. Guillaume, at Valançay one October, lying on his back in a pile of leaves where she’d pushed him. He was laughing, holding his arms up in invitation ….

It still happened occasionally, this upsurge of memory, but the sadness usually had a sweetness to it. The images were like the pictures and memorabilia of long-lost childhood that one looked at in attics: dusty portraits, forgotten toys, scraps of material, pressed flowers. But not this one, not this time. She felt only a deep well of loss, an awareness, sharp and bitter as aloes, of a squandered life.

Guillaume had always seen the war through Talleyrand’s
eyes, and he would expect her to do this. He would see it as her duty.

“Gabby … Gabby …” Jake came hurtling down the path toward her. “You look sad,” he said with habitual directness. “Are you sad? Don’t be.” He took her hand, looking anxiously up at her.

“No,” she said, dredging up a smile of reassurance. “I was just remembering things. Have you finished your lessons?”

Jake pulled a face. “I don’t think it’s fair I have to go to the vicarage on Saturday afternoons, do you?”

Jake now did his lessons in the vicarage schoolroom with the vicar’s children, an arrangement that suited everyone and provided the child with much-needed company of his own age.

“Why don’t you talk to Papa?” Jake now said with a crafty sideways glance. When Gabby took up his cause with his father, things usually changed for the better.

Gabrielle couldn’t help laughing. “You’re a sly one, young Jake. If you do lessons in the vicarage schoolroom, then you must abide by their rules. That’s only fair, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps you could talk to Reverend Addison,” he suggested a little less confidently. Gabrielle’s power over the vicar was so far unproven.

“I’ll talk to Papa, but I’m not making any promises.”

Jake was content and trotted beside her as they entered the hall, where the candles were already lit and the air was filled with the scent of dried lavender and rose petals from the bowls scattered on every surface.

“You’d better run along for your tea,” Gabrielle said, shrugging out of her pelisse. Jake scampered off in the direction of the nursery stairs, and Gabrielle stood for a minute, indecisive. She wanted to go up to her own apartments and think in private about the letter and what options she had, but she knew in her heart
that there was no decision to be made. She had only one option.

She turned aside to the library. She might as well fulfill her promise to Jake while it was fresh in her mind.

Nathaniel looked up from his papers as she came in, and smiled involuntarily. Gabrielle seemed to become more beautiful and more desirable day by day.

“Come and be kissed,” he said, pushing back his chair.

She leaned over the back of his chair and brushed his lips with her own.

“That’s not much of a kiss,” Nathaniel grumbled, reaching for her arm and pulling her around his chair and onto his lap. He frowned. “What’s the matter?”

“Matter? Nothing,” Gabrielle said, moving to stand up.

His arm tightened around her waist. “Something’s upset you, Gabrielle. I can feel it.”

“It’s this time of year,” she improvised, not totally without truth. “It always makes me feel sad. For some reason it reminds me of my parents. It was October when I arrived at the DeVanes and I still couldn’t absorb what had happened.” She leaned back against his shoulder, playing with his fingers linked at her waist.

“Would you like to go to London for a couple of months? The Season should be getting under way by now.”

“You hate London,” she said, smiling slightly.

“I can endure it until Christmas.”

It would be easier in London to do what she had to. Much easier to practice deception in a crowd
.

“Yes, I’d like that.” She twisted her head and kissed his mouth before untangling his hands at her waist and pushing herself off his knee. “We could take Jake, couldn’t we?”

Nathaniel stroked his chin. “What about his lessons?”

“I have lots of friends with children his age. I’m sure we can find a temporary schoolroom for him to share. Incidentally, he doesn’t think it’s fair he should do lessons on Saturday afternoons. Behold in me his emissary.”

Nathaniel chuckled. “The crafty little monkey. So what do you think?”

“I think there are many educational and certainly more amusing pursuits for a Saturday afternoon,” she declared.

“Well, if we’re taking him to London, the issue is moot for the time being.”

“Such a just and reasonable Papa,” Gabrielle said in tones of mock awe. “It does seem a waste for all that justice and reason to be expended on one small boy.”

The light faded from Nathaniel’s eyes. He pushed his chair away from the table with an angry scrape and gathered together his papers. He said nothing, but the silence was all too eloquent.

She wasn’t making any headway on the subject of children. He was the most infuriatingly obstinate individual! He refused to be drawn on the issue, maintaining this steadfast silence whenever she offered the slightest opening.

Frustrated, Gabrielle watched him open the safe and deposit the papers, the tense silence wreathing around them.

But she had a bigger and more immediate problem on her plate at the moment.

“So, when should we go to London?” she asked cheerfully, as if the last tense minutes hadn’t happened.

Nathaniel turned from the safe, clear relief in his own eyes, and responded in the same tone. “Next week … if you like.”

“The Vanbrughs have been in Grosvenor Square for three weeks. I’ll write to Georgie and let her know we’re coming—oh, and shouldn’t we send Mrs. Bailey,
and perhaps Bartram, on ahead to get the house on Bruton Street ready?”

“Whatever you think best, madam wife.” Gabrielle had the reins of his household firmly in her own hands, and he knew she was asking for his opinion only for politeness’s sake.

Gabrielle gave a nod of acknowledgment and left the library. Ellie was drawing the curtains when she went into her boudoir, and the maid immediately began a gossipy account of some village scandal.

Gabrielle listened with half an ear. She didn’t discourage Ellie’s gossip in general because she often heard of trials and tribulations that could be alleviated by the manor, but this evening the girl’s light tones grated and the story held no interest.

“Ellie, be a dear and fetch me some tea,” she interrupted. “I feel as if I’m developing a headache.”

“Oh, yes, my lady. I’ll fetch it right up.” Ellie’s good-natured face expressed genuine concern as she hurried from the room.

Gabrielle sat by the fire, resting her feet on the fender. She was going to give Talleyrand’s intelligence directly to Simon. He’d share it with Nathaniel, of course, but no one would know where it came from. She was going to create an anonymous character, a mole who had sensitive information from France. It should be simple enough to arrange for the delivery of an anonymous letter to Simon’s government office at Westminster, particularly once she was living on Bruton Street.

In one way, she would be making up for her earlier deceit when she’d used Simon to introduce her to Nathaniel. Grief and the need for vengeance then had subsumed guilt at deceiving her friends, but she was still uncomfortable with the memory. Nathaniel had never referred to it because they never talked about that time; she had made her choice of loyalties and they both accepted it. She knew he must have done
similar distasteful things in his own career; it went with the territory.

That night, for the first time in many months, she had the nightmare again.

Nathaniel held her, stroking the damp ringlets from her forehead as she wept, her body a tight bow of pain. She clung to him, shivering in her sweat-soaked nightgown, and he didn’t know how to comfort her except to hold her, trying to infuse her with the warmth of his own body, the deep steadiness of his own heartbeat. He remembered he’d felt some strain, some unhappiness in her that afternoon, and she’d ascribed it to these old dreadful memories of childhood terror and loss.

When her sobs lessened, he drew her nightgown over her head and gently sponged and dried her body. And she lay still as he did so, her forearm covering her swollen eyes as if the soft glow of the candle hurt her. He moved her arm and bathed her eyes, then kissed her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, her mouth, his hands visiting her body in long, healing strokes, seeking to exorcise her demons in the only way he knew. And slowly she relaxed beneath his touch and welcomed the warm length of his body measured along hers, drawing strength and renewal from a tender possession that gave much more than it took.

Two weeks later Nathaniel drew his horses to a halt in front of an imposing mansion on Bruton Street. “I’ll visit Tattersalls tomorrow and purchase something for you to drive,” he observed to Gabrielle as he assisted her to alight. “Do you fancy a phaeton?”

“No, a curricle,” she said promptly, standing on the pavement, looking up at the double-fronted facade of Praed House. “A handsome house, my lord.”

“I trust it will meet with your approval inside.” He gave her a mock bow, then offered her his arm to mount the steps.

The door opened before they reached it, and a smiling Bartram bowed them within. Mrs. Bailey greeted them in the hall with the information that she’d taken the liberty of hiring two footmen and three parlor maids. But she thought her ladyship would prefer to hire the cook herself. The agency would send suitable candidates to be interviewed as soon as Lady Praed was rested from her journey.

“I’ll see them first thing tomorrow morning, Mrs. Bailey,” Gabrielle said immediately, looking around, noting the highly polished banister, the gleaming marble beneath her feet, the sparkling chandelier. “You have done a wonderful job. Everything looks splendid.”

Mrs. Bailey permitted herself a smile of satisfaction. “Nurse and Miss Primmer will be arriving with Master Jake this evening, I understand, my lady.”

“Yes. In a couple of hours, I imagine. The postchaise is no match for Lord Praed’s curricle.” Gabrielle cast Nathaniel a sideways smile. “Or perhaps I should say for his lordship’s driving skill.” They’d had a friendly competition on the way up, alternating between changing posts. Nathaniel was a vastly superior whip.