Chapter 15 #5
The Serpentine appeared before them, the water rippling in the icy breeze, sparkling even in the dim light that pierced the veil of sombre cloud overhead.
“Did you succeed?”
He snorted. “No. My father is nothing if not sly and remarkably resourceful. I poked around the edges of his world, making friends with the French smugglers. As a child I’d run tame on the streets of Paris and could pass for a lowborn thug as easily as a blue-blooded Englishman.
I began working with them, going out on runs, and gradually I pieced it together. ”
He drew the horses to a halt within the shelter of a small stand of trees, a little out of the wind and with The Serpentine coiling across the park beside them. Ray ran to the horses' heads and stood waiting.
“Pieced what together?”
She had turned in her seat and was watching him expectantly.
All at once he did not wish to tell her, did not wish her to know how black his blood really was, yet it might be the only way to protect her.
If she realised how deep he was in, how bad things could get, it might make her back off.
He leapt down from the carriage and held out his hand to her. “Walk with me.”
She slid across the seat, reaching out her hand, but Ben took hold of her waist instead, lifting her down.
He heard her quick intake of breath, and the feel of her narrow waist beneath his palms reminded him again that he had kissed her, tasted her sighs, had invaded her mouth with his tongue and stolen the sweetness he found there.
It took him a moment to realise he had not let her go, that he was staring down at her as if he might devour her in one bite, and that Ray was watching the performance with interest.
Coming back to his senses, he nonetheless took pleasure in the flush at her cheeks, and the way her eyes had darkened. He drew away, offering her his arm, which she took without a word. They walked on for a few moments before he continued.
“My father is a traitor, Miss Honeywell. He was passing on information to the French about supplies and military goods, quantities and locations, the timing and routes of the Channel crossings. He exposed the identities of couriers and spies working for the British.”
Ben waited, expecting an exclamation of shock or outrage, but she said nothing. She only watched him attentively.
“It took me a while to figure it out, but he was using English smugglers, though I came to realise most of the men had no notion of precisely what they were doing. As you know, our old family home has been long abandoned. My father realised it was not only the perfect place for hiding contraband but was also an ideal location for the exchange of information. How were those men to know that a thick, well-wrapped bolt of fabric might hide papers revealing information to the French, or a thick parcel of woollen cloth a ledger all in code? Yet my father could not be doing it alone. He needed a contact in England who supplied the information.”
“Lord Alveston,” she guessed, her voice soft.
They stopped a few feet from the edge of the water, and Ben turned to look at her.
How beautiful she was, her lovely face so grave and serious.
How he wished he might be like any other of the fine gentlemen she had danced with that night, one who could call upon her and take her driving in the park without the knowledge that his father was rotten to the core, that his family name, tainted as it was, would soon become synonymous with the worst kind of betrayal.
There was a price on Boreas’ head, and he did not know if his work for the government would be enough to save him.
Certainly, Lord Alveston would paint him black as pitch if he got the opportunity, and he was an influential man with friends in high places.
“The very same,” he agreed, finding he could not hold her gaze.
“You joined the English smugglers to thwart them.”
He nodded. “That, and to do what they were doing in reverse, passing on information to the British government.”
She looked a little relieved to hear this, the poor fool, grasping at straws. “So, there are people who know that you risked your life for your country?”
Ben laughed, swiping his hat from his head and tapping it against his thigh. “Oh, yes. Just as there are those who are terribly eager to prove I’m a double agent, and really working for the French. After all, I grew up there. I’ve never lived in England, why would I feel the least bit of loyalty?”
“Alveston again.”
She sounded breathless now, and when he turned back to her, the flush had left her cheeks; she looked pale and frightened, and he cursed himself for involving her in this. He ought to have found another way. Still, he nodded.
“Alveston again. I had hoped that if I returned as myself, he would seek me out, assuming I was working with my father. He’s cautious, though, and so far, he’s deliberately avoided me. I am wondering if my father has discovered what I’m doing, and if he’s informed Alveston.”
“Your father?” She stared at him, aghast, that his own father might put him in danger was a suggestion so shocking to her she appeared to disbelieve it was possible.
Ben laughed, though it was not a cheerful sound.
“You still do not understand what manner of man my father is. He’d see me dead in a heartbeat to save his own skin.
I do not believe Alveston has made the connection between me and Boreas, certainly not that we are one and the same, but he knows Boreas is on to him.
He ordered Captain Underwood to hunt me down and kill me.
No trial. Happily, the man has a sense of honour and refused. ”
“Oh! I heard him,” she said, reaching out and grabbing his sleeve. “I heard his conversation with Underwood. That was Alveston? Lord, but I’m stupid. Why did I not—”
“Izzy!” Ben grabbed her arms, holding her too tightly, but fear had his heart in a vice.
“Stay out of it! Do you hear me? This is not a game! This is not some daft novel like the one you gave me. This is life and death. My father is on the run, wanted for treason. Alveston means to implicate me too and, as I’m his son, it would be too easy to believe.
I cannot have you involved in this. I am dancing on a knife edge, and I can’t afford distractions.
Alveston, realising you know he is a traitor, or even suspecting it, would be the worst kind of distraction. He’ll use you to manipulate me.”
She gazed up at him, pale but with that glimmer of steel he knew she had glinting in her eyes.
“I am not a fool, Mr Midwinter, and Lord Alveston likes me. He might even be contemplating courting me. It is the perfect way to get close to him, to worm my way into his confidence. I could help you expose him. Let me help you.”
The idea of letting Lord Alveston anywhere near her, let alone encouraging the despicable bastard into believing he could take liberties with her, made Ben’s stomach roil, terror sliding beneath his skin like hundreds of tiny, writhing serpents.
Good God, he’d rather die than see Izzy in that man’s arms. The realisation stunned him so much for a moment he could not think, let alone speak.
He did not know what the devil to do with her, though he knew what he wanted, more so with each moment he spent in her company.
“Ben,” he said roughly, finally finding his tongue, though it was not what he’d intended to say.
For a moment she looked confused.
“My name is Ben. And over my dead body.” His grip softened on her arms, and he realised her hands rested upon his chest, the delicate ivory kid gloves bright against the dark fabric. They smoothed over the fine charcoal wool of his greatcoat, and his heart gave a reckless thud in his chest.
“Ben,” she said.
Hearing his name on her lips—his name, not Boreas, not Mr Midwinter—made something unravel inside him, a tangle of sensations he could not, would not try to understand. The beautiful girl in his grasp stared up at him, her eyes beseeching, pleading with him to trust in her.
“You have no idea who I am, what I am capable of. Why can you not understand that I can help you? Probably more effectively than anyone else, because Alveston would never believe I am a threat to him. I might seem like a silly girl with her head full of nonsense, but I am not half so foolish as you seem to believe, and that is why it will work.”
“I don’t think you foolish,” he replied, hearing his voice as a frustrated growl. “I think… I think…”
He thought she was marvellous, beautiful, reckless, and braver than anyone he’d ever known, but he would rather die than put her at risk. Yet, he could not tell her so, did not even know how, so he did the only thing he could in the circumstances.
He kissed her.